


Though By Your Smiling You Seem To Say

by disapparater, smoochfestmod



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Humor, M/M, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Present Tense, Recreational Drug Use, Unwelcome Flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoochfestmod/pseuds/smoochfestmod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I suggest that Malfoy & I go away on a trip to the country, I expect fresh air, scenery and long walks, not strange locals, randy bulls and eccentric uncles. At least we have booze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though By Your Smiling You Seem To Say

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hd_moochfest 2014. This is a "media remix" of the film Withnail & I
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Notes: Why did i choose this film? This fic was almost the death of me. Also, it's fluffier than the warnings make it sound, honestly! Shout out to Billy S. for the title. Thank you to my two betas. One who has seen the film and offered such valuable insight and feedback, and one who hasn't seen the film and assures me that this fic does work independently.

I breathe in deeply, letting the smoke from the cigarette fill up my lungs before I breathe it out again. It's a filthy habit, I know, but it calms me. And I need calming this morning.

My vault at Gringotts is almost empty; last month I didn't pay the gas bill. I had the money, but not enough for the gas and electric bills _and_ the rent. What's the point of paying the bills for a house you've been kicked out of? A few days ago the gas supply was cut off. It's been freezing ever since. We can't cast warming charms strong enough to heat the whole house, and even charms to keep ourselves warm only last so long, and can't be kept up while we're asleep—or drunk. Maybe we could have a wood burner installed. Would that heat the whole house? Could we even afford one? Would the landlord even let us? The 'No's build up in my chest, making it hard to breathe until I put the cigarette to my mouth again.

Why we decided to live in a Muggle house I can't even remember. That's a lie, I remember exactly. It's about halfway between Diagon Alley and the West End, so close enough to both parts of our life. And it had to be this house, because as much as Malfoy may have left his expensive lifestyle and fancy manor behind, he still needed a certain degree of elegance. I'm not sure I'd call a crumbling and unkempt Victorian house elegance, but it made Malfoy smile when we viewed it, so we moved in four years ago.

Malfoy. I take another, long, drag on my cigarette. The stress of the bills and the cold fade to almost nothing when I think of him. I can't remember the last time I saw Malfoy sober. It's been so long that I'm beginning to question whether I ever have.

I worry about him incessantly. He is always drinking, looking for his next drink or already drunk. Rarely is he hungover—he never stops drinking for long enough for that to happen. He barely does magic at all any more; being either too drunk to cast or having drunkenly mislaid his wand. He's always bitching about something. He leaves the house for nothing less than booze or an audition. He still smiles at me, but it's either inebriated or forced. He puts my nerves on edge. I need to do something.

Before I decide what it is I should do, an owl taps at the window. It has a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in its claws. I don't read that rubbish, but Molly sometimes sends it if there has been a particularly flattering or amusing article about me in it. I retrieve the paper from the owl and glance around for some kind of treat. There is a stale crust nearby, but when I offer it, the owl turns its beak up and flies away. I find myself missing Errol.

I abandon my cigarette and toss the paper on the cluttered coffee table. I decide coffee sounds like a good idea and head to the kitchen. I ignore the sink full of dirty pots, and fill a clean-ish looking kettle with water, set it on the hob and fire a boiling charm at its base.

 

Glancing at the clock I decide it's about time to raise Malfoy from the drunken depths of his bed. I bang on his door, but know he won't answer it.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask through the wood. When I get no answer, I try again. “Do you want a cup of tea, Malfoy?”

Finally, I get a response. “No.”

I figure that's the best I'll get for a while and go back to living room.

It's still strange, when I think about it. Me and Malfoy, friends. Best friends, even; we've barely got anyone else any more. I joined a drama club in Clerkenwell on a whim, really, after a casual comment from Hermione about my 'always playing the hero'. She didn't mean anything by it, but I took offence to it. I've never _played_ the hero; I've just had to _be_ the hero, but it made me wonder if I could play at being something else. Someone else. Malfoy had joined, well, I'm not entirely sure why Malfoy joined; he's never exactly been forthcoming about it (or anything else). I get the impression it has something to do with pissing off his parents and his love of attention. Whatever his reasons for going to the drama club, the fact that we were both there is the reason we're friends now.

The reasons Malfoy is a raging alcoholic are a little harder to pin down.

While the kettle boils I idly flick through the _Daily Prophet_ , skimming the headlines. It's all miserable news; murder and scandal and bad politics. I can't read the full articles. Molly reads this every day, my friends read this every day; they can cope with the entire wizarding world, and I'm barely coping with Malfoy.

I close the paper quickly, just as my chest starts to close up. I stand and lean against the mantle, feeling my lungs heaving, without reaping any benefit from oxygen. I wonder if I'm overdosing on one cigarette.

“I have some terrible news.”

Looking under my outstretched arm I see Malfoy neck a glass of whatever booze he's drinking as he walks into the room.

“Whatever it is, I don't care,” I say to the floor.

“We've just run out of wine,” continues Malfoy, as though I hadn't even spoken. “What are we going to do?”

“I feel bloody awful.” My eyes are still on the floor, picking out the best spot to vomit on.

“So do I, so does everyone.”

I turn to glare at Malfoy, but he doesn't see; he's lighting a cigarette. Then his eyes alight on the _Daily Prophet_ and he snatches it up. I groan; Malfoy knows exactly what a copy of the newspaper in our house means.

While Malfoy rifles through the pages to find what he's looking for, I pull myself together enough to stumble to the steam-filled kitchen. I spend a few minutes looking for the coffee I _know_ I bought a week ago, before I just _Accio_ it (how it ended up in the bathroom, I'm sure I don't want to know). There's no _Accioing_ a clean mug, because there aren't any. With how tight my chest is feeling, there is no room for shame when I grab a spoon and clean-looking bowl.

Malfoy follows me into the kitchen, reading aloud.

“'Harry Potter: Lion Tamer? Harry Potter left drama school over four years ago, and so far his name has not appeared in lights at the Stotranna Wizarding Theatre. Rumours about where he is and what he's doing have been rife, but this reporter has finally tracked him down. According to my source, Mr Potter works for a travelling circus. But Harry Potter's no clown—he's taming lions!'”

Malfoy breaks for a chuckle while we make our way back to the living room.

“'Each night in a different place, the Saviour of the wizarding world wows a tent packed full of Muggles with his amazing affinity with lions. My source tells me Harry has even ridden on a lion's back. We would expect nothing less dangerous and heroic from the Boy Who Lived: lion tamer extraordinaire! Harry was not available for comment when this reporter approached the circus, and no photos have been taken.'”

Malfoy guffaws again while I sip my coffee from a spoon.

“Can you imagine them trying to get a photo?”

“I don't tame lions.”

“That's what you'd say, but that wouldn't wash with them; reporters are determined little bastards. You'd have to threaten them. 'I'm going to have my lion bite your hands off.' - 'No, please don't bite my hands off.' - 'I'm going to have my lion bite your hands off because I don't like having my photo taken.'”

Malfoy is often dramatising things like this. He's always been a natural actor; only me and a few people didn't buy that bloody Hippogriff injury.

Suddenly Malfoy is frowning down at me. “Is that soup? Why haven't I got any soup?” He manages to sound hurt and indignant all at once.

I glance down at my bowl, then up at Malfoy. He has his hair slicked back and he looks gaunt, but somehow—always—still good. He has on that ridiculous long tweed coat that he thinks makes him look dashing and refuses to take off. I'm pretty sure he sleeps in it.

Eventually I get out, “Coffee.”

Malfoy scowls before tuning away. “Use a bloody mug, then.”

I can't help it; I snap. “I would if you'd ever bloody wash up!” I regret it immediately.

Malfoy spins back to face me, fire in his eyes. I know that look. It's challenge and determination and this is bad. “No,” I almost shout; I can't let Malfoy attempt the washing up. Not with the current state of the kitchen—or the current state of Malfoy.

“Yes, you fucker,” is Malfoy's angry response before he strides off in the direction of the kitchen.

I abandon my coffee and jump at him, grabbing him from behind to keep him from reaching the kitchen. He doesn't stop, just attempts to pull me along with him. For a skinny git, he's rather strong.

He makes it to the kitchen, but stops short when he actually _sees_ the pile of dirty pots in the skin.

“I'm not washing that up.” Malfoy backs away, into me. He turns and looks me in the face. “I don't feel right. I think I want to go outside.”

\- - -

We walk through the park. It's cold, but dry and I think the air does Malfoy some good, even if he's tolerating it with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Wanting to be outside seemed like a positive thing for Malfoy to suggest, and he loosens up enough to talk about what's troubling him.

“I'll never get any work. I'll never tread the boards again. I'll never read Shakespeare again.” He pauses, a moment to take a drink, I'm sure, if he had one. “I haven't even played the Dane.”

“Don't talk like that, of course you'll do all those things. It'll get better.”

“It might for you; you've had an audition. You have hope. I have tops marks from a highly respected drama school and dashing good looks, but still the only programme I'm likely to get on is the news.”

I can't help it, I laugh. I laugh at Malfoy's arrogance and his self-deprecation, and his ability to combine them in one sentence. Without once dislodging his cigarette, either.

“I feel sick, I need to sit down.”

We move to a bench, and I begin to realise that Malfoy may be experiencing a hangover. I know I've not seen Malfoy this sober and reasonable in a long time. Grasping at the fact, I do the only thing I can think of to hold on to it.

“We should go away, out to the countryside. Get out of the city and enjoy some clean air.”

“I'm in a park and I'm practically dead, what's the countryside going to do, finish me off?”

I note Malfoy's response isn't a no, count it as a win and resolve to bring it up again later.

“Do we have any powered Bicorn?” Malfoy asks, apropos of nothing.

“What? I don't know, why?”

“It's the main ingredient of a Blister Balm. If we have any Bicorn, I could probably whip some up. If we rub it on our skin it'll keep us warm until the pubs open.”

He sounds so hopeful, and this the most positive he's been in weeks. As we head home in search of Bicorn, my resolve for us to go away to the country only strengthens.

\- - -

In our disused Potions cupboard we find a healthy supply of powdered Bicorn and it only takes Malfoy 15 minutes to create his Blister Balm. It's good to see Malfoy active; doing something other than bitching or drinking. Of course, I should have known it wouldn't last long.

I lay on the sofa determinedly keeping my eyes on the notebook in front of me. I'm trying to write about my thoughts, but it's very difficult when they keep straying to Malfoy. He is standing nearby in nothing but his pants and that tweed coat, arms rolled up, rubbing Blister Balm all over himself. I don't know if it's working for Malfoy, but I'm certainly getting a little warm.

“I didn't make enough; there's none left for you,” Malfoy tells me.

I don't tell him I don't need it.

Covered in horrible-looking gloop, Malfoy walks up and down the length of the living room. I can't avoid looking at him when he enters my line of sight, long coat swishing as he turns and walks proudly back the other way, heedless to the fact he's only wearing pants. In that moment I'm jealous of him. Of his pride and dignity, despite the lengths he's had to go to to keep himself warm. I'm jealous of that when all I am is guilty that I couldn't pay the gas bill and anxious everyday that things will get worse, get worse than they already are.

I think about going away again. Getting Malfoy away. That would be better. There is only one problem with my plan: we can't afford it.

“Why don't you ask for father for some money?” I ask, innocently enough. “If we had some money we could go away for a while.”

Malfoy's pacing draws to a halt, but he doesn't turn to look at me.

“Why don't you ask your father for money?” he says. He means nothing by it, I know. He's too wrapped up in his own thoughts to think through the retorts he throws. It still smarts, though. He doesn't realise I've gone through all my father's money keeping us alive for the last four years. “I'm fucking freezing. Is the heating on?”

“Er...” I hesitate. He doesn't know the gas has been cut off. “I think so, yeah.” It's not a lie; the heating is _on_ , it just can't do anything without the gas supply.

“Then why has my head gone numb?” Malfoy whines, and I know he's slipping. His moment of positivity is over. “I need to wake my brain up. I demand drugs!”

I have no drugs to offer him and can't distract him with booze, because the pubs don't open for another hour. He looks around, determined to ferret some substance out from somewhere. I see his hand twitch for his wand, but he's misplaced it again. Then he turns to the Potions cupboard and all but lunges at it. I'm up from the sofa in a flash—I know he can't _brew_ drugs, so what's he found? He turns triumphantly, holding a small bunch of dried leaves.

“Don't eat that.” I speak calmly, as though to not frighten a scared animal.

“Why not?”

As we talk I sneak my way around Malfoy to stand between him and the Potions cupboard.

“Because eaten raw it'll give you a heart attack.”

“Really?” Malfoy frowns down at the leaves in his hands, but doesn't let go of them.

“Rue the day I know more about potion ingredients than you, Malfoy.”

“You make a good point,” says Malfoy evenly. “That day will never come.” And then he's shoving the dried Hellebore leaves into his mouth and swallowing it all. When it's gone, he looks at me and grins, clearly pleased with himself. “We got any more?”

I shake my head, truly scared for Malfoy.

“Liar.” He looks over my shoulder at the cupboard and steps forward. “I know I've got some Aconitum in there!”

“No you don't.” I hold Malfoy back while I grasp for words, and say the first lie I can think of. “You ate that last week!”

This makes Malfoy pause, then he's laughing like a man mad. He leans into my chest, and for a second I enjoy the moment. Malfoy laughing at me, holding himself against me. Then Malfoy slips down to the floor and vomits all over my shoes.

\- - -

It turns out Malfoy was right; he knows more about Potions than me even when he's half-drunk and insane with withdrawal.

 

While Malfoy sleeps it off on the sofa, I look up the leaves he ate in one of his Potions books. It hadn't been Hellebore; Malfoy had scoffed a handful of Artemisia Absinthium. Which is likely to induce hallucinations, while adverse effects were limited to convulsions and kidney failure—way better than a heart attack.

 

I'm just relieved he threw it back up, even if it had to be on my shoes. I hit them with every cleaning spell I can think of, but there still remains a whiff of bile. I resort to a deodorant charm and hope for the best.

 

\- - -

 

The pub's been open for about 20 minutes by the time we get there. (It would've been earlier, but Malfoy had woken up stuck to the sofa and I'd had to _Scourgify_ the balm from his skin before he could get up, wash properly and dress.)

 

We head straight to the bar and Malfoy orders us two pints of cider and two large gins. When they are placed in front of us Malfoy immediately picks up his gin and clinks it against mine, which is still on the bar.

 

“Chin, chin,” says Malfoy before downing his gin in one.

 

I pick my own up and sip at it slowly. It's probably best I raise the topic before Malfoy is too pissed to really understand what I'm saying.

 

“Hey, we should ask what's his name if we can borrow his house in the country.”

 

Malfoy turns to me, already starting on his pint, and nods. “Yeah, sure.”

 

I smile; that was easier than I'd thought it would be. “Great. You should call him.”

“Okay, what's his number?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“Well I don't have it.”

 

“Why don't you have it?” I frown. Something's not right, and I can't blame it on Malfoy's inebriation—yet.

 

“I don't even know him.”

 

“Of course you do.”

 

“Well what _is_ his name?”

 

“I can't remember. Your uncle, the one—the one who gave you the jag.”

 

“Monty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Oh. Okay.” The confusion on Malfoy's face clears, and even with our misunderstanding it was still easier than I thought it would be. “I'll go call him now.”

 

“I'm going to the loo.” If I've learnt anything in my years in Malfoy's company, it's to go to the toilet as often and as early as possible. The number of times I've come back from the loo and he's been so drunk he's gone missing (moved on to another pub, vomiting in the gutter outside or—rarely—gone home) is ridiculously high. Best to get my own pissing in before Malfoy's too drunk.

 

As I make my way to the toilets at the back of the pub I pass a woman sitting alone at a small table. She glances up at me, seems to give me a once over and then winks and says, “Hello, handsome.” My urgency to get to the toilet suddenly increases, as does the speed of my steps.

 

Once inside I piss blindly into the urinal and try to pretend that didn't just happen. A woman did not just eye me up, wink and hit on me. No. Except I'm pretty sure it did, and I have no idea what to do with that. Women don't hit on me. I don't _want_ women to hit on me; I'm gay. Another bloke would walk out of the loo, head over to her and buy her a drink, chat her up, then take her home and fuck her. I hate every part of that plan. I want to walk out of the loo, head back to Malfoy, talk to him, then take him home and—I don't want anything to do with the woman, is what I'm saying. But I also don't really like the idea of people knowing I'm gay, and I realise I should be happy I obviously don't exude gayness, if a woman is hitting on me. Though how am I supposed to spurn her advances without shouting, “I'm gay!” in her face?

 

It suddenly becomes patently apparent to me that I am no good at this.

 

With my heartbeat speeding up, I take a deep breath and focus on the things around me. Across the wall in front of me is some hastily scribbled toilet-grade graffiti. It says, 'I fuck arses', and I can only wonder: Who fucks arses? I'd _like_ to fuck arses. I'm fairly certain the women out in the pub doesn't fuck arses. I wonder if Malfoy's ever been pissed enough to fuck arses.

 

I shake my self off—mentally, as well as physically—before washing my hands and heading back out to the bar.

 

As I pass the woman, she is—if possible—more blatant about eyeing me up than before, grinning and saying, “Still handsome, Handsome,” and I want to vomit while wishing I was deaf. Or blind. _And_ blind.

 

I somehow make it back to Malfoy, who, I can't help but notice, despite my agitated state, has another empty gin glass beside him and has almost finished a second pint.

 

“We're going 'round to see Monty tonight.” Malfoy may as well have not spoken, for the attention I pay to his words.

 

“We have to leave,” I say without preamble.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“A woman hit on me.”

 

Malfoy lets out a harsh laugh, but puts his pint down. “Who the hell would do that?” He turns away from the bar, obviously to get a look at the woman.

 

And a very good look he gets, too, because she is standing only a couple of feet behind us.

 

This time, her eyes travel up and down Malfoy's body, and I hate her slightly more than I did before. She then looks between the two of us before settling on me.

 

“I didn't realise you had a friend, but okay.”

 

Malfoy _almost_ gapes like a fish, but finds his words at the last minute.

 

“I don't like what you're insinuating. And I don't sleep with women who are too forward. Or any women, in fact—save my, my wife of course. I'm very committed. You and my fr—acquaintance here should take your engagement somewhere more secluded. You should, what's the term?” Malfoy snaps his fingers and his face lights up. “Get a room!”

 

When the woman looks ready to strangle Malfoy, he makes a break for it, and I am swiftly on his heels. We burst through the doors of the pub and out into the street and don't stop running until we reach the next place that sells alcohol.

 

\- - -

 

It's nice in our bathroom. The bath is large and is the only thing in the room other than a sink, a toilet and a pile of dirty towels (and coffee, occasionally, apparently). I can spend an inordinate amount of time in the bath; it's warm and peaceful and calming.

 

I spend far too long on my hair, knowing it will never behave, but somehow convincing myself that if I use enough of Malfoy's fancy conditioner (that there is not a lot left of) and comb it flat to my head over and over, that it can't just make itself an unkempt mess as soon as it's dry. But we're visiting Malfoy's posh-not-posh Uncle Monty to ask for a favour and my hair is likely to ruin the whole thing for us if I don't at least try.

 

As I dip my head under the water to rinse off the conditioner I hear the door open and close. When I lift my head from the water it is to the not unfamiliar sight of Malfoy sitting on the toilet. He's not here to use the toilet, we are simply far beyond the boundaries of a typical friendship. I make no move to cover myself. This isn't the first time he's sat on the toilet while I've bathed. It's not even the hundredth.

 

Malfoy has on his usual long tweed jacket, but I seems lumpier than usual. I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

 

“Here.” Malfoy digs into one of his bulging inside pockets before presenting me with a sausage.

 

“Thanks?” I take the sausage wearily.

 

“It's dragon meat, don't be ungrateful!”

 

“I said thanks. Where'd you get it?”

 

Malfoy brushes off the question with a vague wave of his hand. I already know. This isn't the first time Malfoy has had no money and come home with bulging pockets. I don't know why he's so elusive about it. As long as he doesn't get caught, I'm not going to say anything; we need to eat.

 

I take a bite of the dragon meat sausage. It's the most expensive thing I've eaten in weeks—simultaneously the cheapest, and it's only more delicious because of that.

 

“Luna's here,” says Malfoy casually.

 

I promptly drop my sausage into the dirty bath water.

 

“What? How and when did she get in?”

 

“I let her in when I nipped out for dinner. You're welcome, by the way.” Malfoy motions to the bath, indicating the sausage that has sunk into its depths.

 

Luna. I like her well enough, but she's 'round the fucking twist. Which might have been endearingly weird at school, but five years later is now creepily weird. But then I live with an alcoholic and am constantly a step away from a panic attack, so who am I to talk? Besides, Luna is my only non-Malfoy friend who still visits me. The best I get from anyone else these days is an owl. As annoying as Luna can be, if she stopped showing up, I don't know what I'd do. Or how I'd get high; Luna is our dealer, after all.

 

“How long do you think she'll stay? Can I hide out in the bath until she's gone?”

 

“If you want to shrivel up like—” Malfoy pauses to take an unsubtle peak into the bath. “—a prune, then by all means stay. I'll deal with Luna by myself. Alone. Solo. On my lonesome. Solitary. Single-handedly. _Wandless_.”

 

“Okay, okay, I'm coming.” It's the last one that gets me, considering I discovered Malfoy's wand amongst the pile of dirty towels before I got in the bath. I'm not about to share that fact with him though. He won't need his wand at Monty's and he is only going to get drunker as the evening wears on. It's better being kept safe, nestled in the dampness where Malfoy is unlikely to look for it.

 

I pull the plug and wait for the cold air against my skin to drive me from the bath. I glance at Malfoy who is fidgeting on the toilet. Radiating both impatience and avoidance, Malfoy seems forever an oxymoron.

 

“Calm down, Malfoy. I have to deal with her too. We're in the same boat.”

 

It obviously isn't the right thing to say. Malfoy scoffs at me before standing up and grabbing the door handle.

 

“You don't get it. You can't get it. The only thing you're in that I've been in is the bath.”

 

Before I even know what to say, Malfoy has left and I'm sitting naked in an empty bathtub with a sausage between my legs.

 

\- - -

 

I enter the living room with my towel tied firmly around my waist and the sausage, with one bite gone, in my hand. Luna is lounging comfortably on the sofa as if this is her own home and Malfoy is standing at the mirror over the mantle tying his tie. Malfoy spares me only the briefest of glances via the mirror, but it's enough for me to know he is still annoyed with me.

 

“You'd better hurry up and get dressed; I said we'd be at Monty's for seven.” As he speaks, Malfoy roughly unties his tie, obviously unhappy with his previous knot. I'm not stupid, and I keep my mouth shut.

 

“Is that why you're all dressed up in the fancy suit?” Luna asks Malfoy. It is a fancy suit, too. The only one Malfoy has, in fact. It was bought years ago while we still had money, and Malfoy has taken surprisingly good care of it. Maybe that's not surprising, though, as he's worn it to every audition he's had.

 

“What do you care?” Malfoy all but spits back at her.

 

Unfazed, Luna leans her head back on the sofa to look at me. “What's wrong with him today?” she asks, before her eyes widen and she snatches the sausage from my hand before taking a bite.

 

“What's always wrong with Malfoy?” I throw back in a harsh whisper while trying not to cringe.

 

Nodding sagely while chewing on the bath water sausage, Luna says, “Too many Wrackspurts.” Then she turns back to Malfoy. “I only mentioned your suit because someone I know was trying to get hold of a Muggle suit recently. He was a reporter for _The Quibbler_ and he wanted to infiltrate a circus and get an interview with an elusive celebrity—”

 

I groan. “Oh fuck, you weren't the one who “leaked” that story about me being a lion tamer, were you?”

 

“Of course I was. Now the press will be looking for you in travelling circuses all over the country and I've given _The Quibbler_ another exclusive—by the way, don't go visiting any travelling circuses for a while.”

 

“Thanks for the warning.” I drop myself into a chair, defeated. “It was in the _Prophet_ today, you know.”

 

“Yes, but it was in _The Quibbler_ three days ago. Anyway, the reporter couldn't find a suit, so he went in a wet suit and a cardigan. He didn't get the interview, but they did ask him to join the circus—he starts next week.”

 

“That's—” I have no idea how to finish, because I have no idea what that is.

 

Luckily, Malfoy does. He turns from the mirror, tie tied. “That's wonderful for him. What would be wonderful for us is some drugs.”

 

Before Malfoy has even finished talking Luna is shaking her head.

 

“Afraid not. Other than occasional recreational use I'm out of that business now, so I don't have any to offer you.”

 

Malfoy's shoulders drop and he seems instantly more relaxed. I'm baffled at how _not_ getting drugs elicits this reaction in him. He picks up some sort of small stick from the coffee table and twirls it between his fingers.

  
“At least you still have the Blibbering Humdinger penis business.”

 

“Nope,” says Luna. “You can have that.”

 

Malfoy looks down at the stick—which is apparently now his, and apparently a Blibbering Humdinger penis—before shrugging and tucking it into his pocket.

 

“I've decided to focus on my career as a journalist,” Luna continues. “I'm a natural at it, really—it's in my blood. Plus now The Quibbler is a journalist down, they need me there full time.”

 

At this, Malfoy scoffs. “You call working for that joke of a news source being a journalist?”

 

Luna's eyes narrow as she glares at Malfoy.

 

“What he means is—” I jump in to defend Malfoy, but I have no idea how to actually do that. I'm saved the trouble of thinking of something.

 

“I know exactly what he means,” says Luna, still staring at Malfoy.

 

For his part, Malfoy sits with his head held high, but doesn't speak again.

 

“Please don't insult my father's magazine, or I'll be forced to spike you.”

 

Malfoy's chin lowers a fraction before he speaks again. “You wouldn't. You're not the violent type.”

 

“No, Malfoy, she means drugs—she'll give you drugs without you knowing.”

 

“Please. I think I would know if I'd been drugged.”

 

“Yeah, but if I spiked you, you'd think an _Expulso_ to the head was a birthday present.”

 

I turn to frown at Luna. As odd as she is, for her to make threats like this is so out of character. She wouldn't hurt a moon frog, let alone a Malfoy.

 

“There's nothing you can give me that I can't handle,” claims Malfoy.

 

“No magical drug, maybe. But you’d never cope with this particular Muggle drug.”

 

Malfoy scoffs, but hesitates just enough for me to notice. I also notice Luna throw me a small wink while Malfoy looks pointedly away.

 

Luna pulls out a small white tablet and holds it up to Malfoy between her thumb and forefinger. “N-acetyl-p-aminophenol.” She pauses for obvious dramatic affect. “Street name: Paracetamol.”

 

I manage to stifle my laughter; I need to see how this plays out. Malfoy frowns at the little pill. For someone who has been living and working in the Muggle world for four years, he has never been truly integrated into the world. Obviously flummoxed by the chemical, rather than Latin, name, he hesitates.

 

“Give it to me then,” he says, eventually.

 

Luna shrugs and says, “Good luck. You’ll need it,” before handing him the pill.

 

Malfoy frowns down at it, but eventually grabs a discarded beer bottle and swallows it with the dregs that have likely been there for several days. He shudders.

 

“I feel a bit sick,” Malfoy confesses. That'll be the beer, but with a swift glance at each other, Luna and I agree not to tell Malfoy that.

 

“That’s the first stages of Paracetamol,” Luna says. “It’ll get better—or worse, depending on your point of view.” She stands, smiling serenely. “Either way, I’ll leave you to it.”

 

On her way out of the door, Luna throws me a full-blown grin.

 

\- - -

 

Despite Malfoy's exclamations that we would be late, we pull up outside Monty's house only a few minutes after seven. We drive because we can't Apparate. I have never been to Monty's before, and Malfoy still hasn't found his wand (and I still haven't told him where it is). We use the car so rarely that it still had a full tank of petrol. Not to mention that, from the limited information Malfoy has given to me, I get the impression that Monty doesn't exactly look favourably on magic.

 

Monty actually gave the car to Malfoy as a gift—despite the fact that he has no licence—when he abandoned his life in the magical world. I took it upon myself to learn how to drive so we could actually make use of it. It's an old Jaguar, and was (I'm told) quite fancy back in the day. Now it's rusty and only one headlight works, but it runs, so we keep it around.

According to Malfoy, Monty is a member of the Malfoy family who does not officially exist. His squib status was revealed when he didn't receive his Hogwarts letter and he was abandoned in the Muggle world to fend for himself. Spoken of only in whispers throughout Malfoy's life, Monty was the family he sought out after the war, abandoning the rest. Spoken of only briefly to me, I know Monty was a semi-successful actor in his youth and—I highly suspect—a key influence in Malfoy's choice of career.

 

Sitting out in the car with Malfoy, I look out at the house we are parked in front of. It is sizeable, for London, but I can't make much else out as the light of the day has already faded. I glance over at Malfoy, who is leaning forward in his seat with his head in his hands.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask. He didn't seem worried about this visit to Monty, but maybe he fears introducing me to him. I have my wand and he doesn't, but I'm not about to start throwing spells about and anger Monty when we've come here to ask him a huge favour.

 

Malfoy moans into his hands. “That Parrots-eat-them-all has given me a headache. I feel rotten. And—” Malfoy's head shoots up, and he winces in pain. “—I have had no enjoyable side effects. This drug is ridiculous.”

 

“Maybe it was a dud,” I say, resisting the laughter that builds up in my chest. Only Malfoy would _get_ a headache after taking Paracetamol. “Come on, let's go in. Monty'll have alcohol, right?”

 

I barely get the word 'alcohol' past my lips before Malfoy is out of the car and striding to the front door of the house, leaving me dashing to catch up.

 

Malfoy knocks, and while we wait for the door to be opened, I catch my breath and compose myself. I have no idea what's expected of me, or how I can make the evening—and our chances of getting use of Monty's house in the country—any better (or worse).

 

Thankfully I don't have much time to dwell on it, as the door is soon opened. Behind it stands a rather rotund man who must at least be in his fifties. He is holding a fluffy ginger cat in one arm and motions us in with the other. His hand lingers on my shoulder as I step past him and I feel an instant unease.

 

“Welcome, boys, please come in.” If I hadn't known before, I would have known now. His entire being—his pose, his voice, his _essence—_ screams “actor.” This is the kind of man for whom the world is a stage and daily life is a play.

 

Inside we are led to a living room with two large sofas and an array of trinkets, photographs and programmes. Obvious mementos of a man who has spent his life on stage. I am all at once fascinated and saddened; our home looks nothing like this.

 

Malfoy all but bounds into the room and falls down on the sofa closest to the small tray of drinks, obviously at ease. I sidle in and take a seat beside him.

 

“How are you doing, Uncle Monty?” asks Malfoy jovially.

 

“I'll be fine with less of that 'uncle' nonsense.” Monty drops the ginger ball of fur in his arms and the cat dashes from the room. “Would you care for a drink, dear boy?”

 

“Oh, yes.” Malfoy sits up a little straighter and considers, as if he hasn't be considering all afternoon, what to drink. “Sherry.”

 

“Sherry?” Monty asks.

 

“Sherry,” Malfoy confirms.

 

“Sherry?” This time Monty directs the question at me.

 

“Sherry?” I hedge.

 

“Sherry,” Monty says firmly.

 

Pouring three glasses, Monty passes them out. Malfoy raises his and declares a joyful, “Chin, chin,” but I note he politely does not down his drink in one.

 

Coming around from the drinks tray, Monty takes the sofa opposite us and lets out a dramatic sigh, as though answering the door and pouring a few drinks has taken it out of him.

 

“So,” ventures Monty, with a raised eyebrow and predatory gaze, clearly aimed at me, “I'm told you're an actor, as well?”

 

“Oh, yes.” I'm surprised Malfoy has told Monty anything about me, but then when inviting yourself and a friend around to someone's home, I suppose he had to. “Yes, I'm—”

 

But I never get to tell Monty what I am. At that moment there is a loud crash from elsewhere in the house, and Monty is up from the sofa in a flash and dashing from the room as fast as his ample frame will carry him.

 

“—I'm a little freaked out,” I finish to Malfoy. “Is he real?”

 

“He's a little eccentric,” says Malfoy before finally letting himself gulp down his sherry and jumping up to get another one— _two—_ before Monty comes back. “He's a squib who was raised as a Malfoy until the age of 11, you couldn't have expected him to be perfectly sane.”

 

“Eccentric? _You're_ eccentric, he's insane. Is this what you're going to be like in 20-odd years? _And_ he's a raving homosexual.”

 

Malfoy stops what he's doing to glare at me. I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have speculated on his future level of insanity. I'm saved any further opportunity to insult Malfoy by the return on Monty, who is chasing his fluffy ginger cat.

 

“Bloody beast! He knocked over my vegetable rack, and now the carrots are in disarray, laying amongst the cauliflower!”

 

The cat disappears under the sofa Malfoy and I are sitting on and doesn't reappear. Monty heaves a great sigh and collapses back into the other sofa.

 

“Would you like a drink, Monty?” asks Malfoy, before he smoothly stands and moves around to the drinks tray.

 

“Oh, yes please, my boy. A Brandy Alexander would do me wonders right about now.”

 

Monty leans back and closes his eyes, but I watch as Malfoy pours himself his fourth sherry of the evening and down it before pouring his fifth and _then_ begin making Monty's cocktail. I roll my eyes, but reach for the sherry decanter and pour myself another drink.

 

“How's work going, still on that TV programme?” Monty asks.

 

I frown at Malfoy, but he ignores me and lies to his uncle with practised ease.

 

“For now, but I have a film in the works. Though you know my real passion is the theatre.”

 

Monty smiles fondly at Malfoy's false claims before opening his eyes and looking towards the mantle piece.

 

“You are a boy after my own heart; the theatre owns mine. Back when I had nothing, when my whole world had literally been taken away from me, I found myself taken in by the—the _kindness_ of people in the industry. They allowed me to work my way into the business, made introductions, helped me make contacts, told me who to schmooze, whose arse to kiss and who to let kiss mine...” Monty seems to slip into his memories as he trails off and picks up one of the photographs from the mantle. “This was my first Shakespeare. Hamlet. Raymond got me the part, only one of the English Ambassadors, not even a speaking part, but I was so pleased to be out on stage before the crowd—in the end I didn't mind sucking Raymond off for the opportunity it gave me.”

 

I am careful to glance casually at Malfoy, who steps in hastily to forestall any further revelations from Monty.

 

“Here's your Brandy Alexander, Monty, do drink up.”

 

Seeming to snap out of a trance, Monty takes his drink. “Thank you, thank you. Sorry to get caught up in another time, I—well—”

 

“Don't be silly, we all have our own history. It makes us who we are, doesn't it?” says Malfoy as he puts down his not yet empty glass.

 

This is the most candid mention of his past I have from Malfoy in years. He refuses to talk about it more than in passing, and always with a bitter resentment in his voice. Here, now, he sounds more accepting. Maybe it's Monty's history he is being accepting of; it seems as though that is something Monty needs.

 

I think about my own road to acting. That meaningless comment that gave me the idea to try acting drove me as far as the small drama club in Clerkenwell. Acting wasn't a common thing in the wizarding world; we don't have television programmes or films. Theatre was the only option, and the group at the club was fairly small at 23 people. Twenty-four when Malfoy walked in a few weeks after me. It was never weird; we were never ourselves. We interacted only as other people, playing our roles. It was a lark, really.

 

After years of drama with lives—my life—on the line and the future of the wizarding world at risk, it was freeing to take part in drama that could be anything—comedy, tragedy, romance (all three, when we took on Shakespeare)—but then be able to wipe my hands of it and go home at night, back to my normal life, drama free.

 

When Malfoy and a couple of the others said they wanted to study acting at Quigwin College of Acting and Drama, the only drama school with a wizarding department that exists, I decided to go with them. I'd come to love acting as a hobby within a few short months, why not take it a step further and pursue it seriously as a career? Do what you love.

 

I'm torn from my musings when I see Monty smile at Malfoy almost hesitantly. “You're right, of course. My dear boy, you're doing so well; you'll go far.” Seeming to remember that I am in the room, Monty looks my way. “You both will, I'm sure. You studied?” At my nod, Monty asks, “Which schools did you go to?”

 

Knowing Monty knows of the magical world, I am prepared to be honest and say Hogwarts and Quigwin, but before I can, Malfoy answers.

 

“The other ones, Monty—like me.”

 

“Oh.” Monty's eyes lose their hazy glaze and the camaraderie that Malfoy had established is gone. Obviously Monty had assumed me to be a Muggle. I hope this hasn't ruined our chance at the cottage.

 

“Monty—” At Malfoy's voice Monty turns his attention back to him. “Monty, can I have a brief word in private?”

 

“Oh, of course, of course.”

 

Monty smiles politely at me as he passes by, but I barely notice. I am too busy frowning in Malfoy's direction, trying to silently ask him what he's playing at. It doesn't work; Malfoy does not even glance my way.

 

I am left alone for several minutes. With nothing else to do I pour myself another sherry. My third—if I can keep count I'm sure I'll be sober enough to drive us home. As I sip my drink and wait I feel a warm pressure against my ankles. I look down to find the ginger cat emerging from under the sofa and winding its way around my legs. After a few circuits the cat jumps up and invites itself on to my lap. I stroke it absent-mindedly while imaging a holiday in the country with Malfoy and hoping our evening will be successful.

 

The cat dislodges itself violently from my lap when we are both jolted by an angry shout.

 

“Traitor!” Monty cries at—I assume—the cat. He turns back to Malfoy, who has followed him into the living room. “I'm sorry, you'll have to go—that blasted animal spoils everything! You have to leave.”

 

“All right Monty, we're going.” Malfoy places placating hands on Monty's wide shoulders. “Calm yourself with another Brandy Alexander and ignore the cat—you know how it works.”

 

Monty nods. “Yes, yes, you're absolutely right.”

 

We are lead swiftly to the door and, once again, Monty's hand lingers on my shoulder as I pass him through the doorway. This time I'm sure I even feel a slight squeeze of his hand.

 

“Goodnight, boys.” Monty's voice drips with inappropriate suggestion, though his words are innocuous.

 

“Night, Monty,” Malfoy calls, seemingly oblivious.

 

As soon as the front door is closed behind us I lean in to whisper harshly in Malfoy's ear.

 

“What the hell what that about? And the thing with the cat? And what was with you speaking to him in private?”

 

“What does any of it matter, when I have the key to our little holiday adventure?”

 

I am baffled for a second about the key to our holiday—I thought Monty had been the key—until Malfoy reaches into his pocket and produces a literal key.

 

\- - -

 

We waste no time and are packed and ready to go as early as midday the next day. It would have been quicker, but we lost an hour or two when I had to convince Malfoy not to only pack alcohol. On the plus side, the whole packing affair kept Malfoy too busy to drink much alcohol, and he is fairly sober when we get in the car and start our long drive.

 

I can't help but spend the first hour or more of the journey smiling like a loon. Malfoy is so genuinely excited, it's infectious and such a welcome sight. He found his wand while rooting through the bathroom for a towel to pack and holds it proudly in his right hand. For once being sober enough, he is performing simple silly spells beside me in the passenger seat. When I feel the gentle caress of a mild tickle spell pass over my cheek my smile breaks out into laughter. I can't remember the last time I saw Malfoy like this, and it is wonderful and strange and highly suspicious. He may have a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, from which he periodically takes sips, but I'm convinced the light-hearted giggles that escape his mouth are not completely alcohol induced.

 

I knew getting Malfoy out of the house and away for a while was a good idea. If he can realise he can be happy, he might realise he doesn't need the alcohol to help him. He might realise other things, about himself, about life, about me.

 

When Malfoy finally becomes tired of performing silly spells just because he can, he puts his wand away and gets out his Blibbering Humdinger penis. I keep my eyes on the road, but I can see him twirling it between his fingers from the corner of my eye.

 

I try to resist, but it's impossible. I have to know. “What the hell is that thing, anyway?”

 

“A dried Blibbering Humdinger penis,” answers Malfoy, as if it's obvious.

 

“Well, I know _that_ , but, why? What does it do?”

 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, perking up again. “It's quite clever, actually—for Lovegood. She came up with it for wizards—her substance buying customers, I assume—who have to take regular drugs tests for work. You strap this shrivelled dick to the old chap, whisper an incantation and let rip with a stream of pure Blibbering Humdinger piss. She was going to expand into lady parts of some kind, but I determinedly stop listening at that point.”

 

I smile and shake my head. This is perfectly Luna.

 

Malfoy continues to slowly drink his whiskey and twirl his Blibbering Humdinger penis while I continue to drive. The laughter and smiles last all the way up until Malfoy falls asleep, over half the whiskey still left in the bottle. My mood never dampens, even when the rain starts to pour.

 

Gradually the sun goes down and the rain only gets heavier. I find the driving more difficult when we get off the motorway and into the county, the hills and the oppressive darkness. I manage, even with only the one headlight, until the wiper on the driver side front window stops working. I pull over and venture out into the rain, leaving Malfoy asleep in the passenger seat (he hasn't woken once, and looks so peaceful. As much as the journey is lonely without him, I can't bear to wake him).

 

I fix the wiper quickly enough with a spell or two, but am absolutely drenched in the 30 seconds I am out in the rain. Frozen and soaked to the bone, I slam the door shut with more force than I need to when I get back into the car, desperate for warmth. The noise wakes Malfoy with a jolt.

 

“What? Are we there yet?” says Malfoy, his voice lazy and sleep-filled.

 

I sigh. “No.” I throw a drying spell at myself so I at least stop dripping. Pulling the map I've barely looked at since coming off the motorway, refusing to believe I was lost, I toss it to Malfoy. “Look at the map. Where are we?”

 

“How the bloody hell should I know where we are?” Malfoy groans and his face falls forward. “I feel like a pig shat in my head.”

 

I sigh again, but pull off back on to the road, refusing to let Malfoy's deteriorating mood ruin mine. We _will_ find Monty's cottage tonight. I am not sleeping in the rain, in a car, with a hungover Malfoy. The inevitable smell of vomit would be too potent, even if we rolled down a window.

 

“Just look at the sodding map and find Crow Crag,” I tell Malfoy.

 

\- - -

 

We find it, eventually. Malfoy manages to stay awake; he even looks at the map and helps.

 

It is pitch black and still pouring with rain when we pull up outside the cottage. Abandoning our luggage in the car, we make a mad dash for the house. A twinge of fear pinches my heart when Malfoy puts the key in the lock—what if we've found the wrong house?—but the key turns, the door swings open and we practically collapse through it.

 

Each casting a Lumos, we look around. The cottage is sparse, tables, chairs, a large open fireplace and minimal decoration. There also seems to be a thick layer of dust on every surface. It is the antithesis of Monty's house in London.

 

“When was the last time Monty was here?” I ask Malfoy as I run my finger along the top of a picture frame showing a much younger Monty dangling from the wall.

 

“I don't know, but I'm guessing years. Fuck, this is awful.” Malfoy collapses into a chair by the barren fireplace and gathers his tweed coat around him. “And _freezing_.”

 

I realise if we want to get anything sorted, it will have to be me that organises it. I take a breath, allowing the air into my lungs and exhaling my growing apprehension.

 

“Malfoy, you nip outside and assess the fuel and wood situation; we need to get a fire going. I'll check the plumbing and make sure we have water.”

 

I expect Malfoy to protest, and he opens his mouth to do exactly that before he stops.

 

Nodding, Malfoy simply says, “Okay,” and gets up from his chair.

 

For a man moaning about the cold not a few seconds before, I find his lack of resistance to going out into the rain more than a little suspicious. I nod back, but keep my eye on him as I head through to the kitchen.

 

My vigilance is not for naught. I don't even make it to the kitchen before Malfoy throws open the front door and raises his wand. I rush back to him as fast as I can, running on instinct.

 

Malfoy manages, “ _Acc_ —” before I am standing in front of him, his wrist in my hand and pointed upwards.

 

“No!” I cry.

 

Malfoy frowns at me, but lowers his wand voluntarily to his side.

 

“What?” he asks, confusion written all over his face.

 

“We're in the countryside, there's likely a whole fucking forest out there! We don't need _that_ much wood. Find some with your eyes, not your wand, yeah?”

 

“You make life so bloody difficult,” moans Malfoy, but he only pauses for a few seconds before stepping out into the rain without another word.

 

I check the plumbing and water, which works fine. There is a small amount of wood in the fireplace, which I set alight with a quick _Incendio_ , but it won't last long without more fuel.

 

When Malfoy steps back in a short while later his is drenched and dripping. He clutches a small wet branch in one hand, and the bottle of whiskey he started on our journey here in the other.

 

“What's this?” I say, indicating the two items Malfoy has brought inside.

 

“The fuel and wood situation.”

 

“I don't think the whiskey will be much good for fuelling the fire.”

 

“It's not fuel for the fire,” says Malfoy before taking a large swig. He tosses the branch onto the table and sighs. “That's all I could find.”

 

I look down at the wood and purse my lips. It's far too wet to burn, and far too small to do us much good if it wasn't.

 

Malfoy shivers, the whiskey obviously not doing enough to keep him warm. As he takes another, longer, pull on the bottle, I feel the anxiety I pushed aside so easily suddenly weigh like lead in my chest. I have no idea what to do.

 

I am snapped out of my stupor when Malfoy slams the whiskey bottle down on the table.

 

“I'm freezing to death, the inside of my head is trying to seep out of my ears and this whiskey tastes like crap!” He spits the words and I want to physically shrink away from him. “This holiday—” Malfoy raises his wand and takes aim. “—sucks.”

 

Malfoy's blasting charm hits the chair and blows it to—to kindling.

 

My chest is light again as I gape across the table at Malfoy, who simply waves an impatient hand at the wood on the floor and looks smug.

 

\- - -

 

When the morning rolls around I wake up in the smaller of the cottage's two bedrooms. I pause to listen, and smile when the sound of rain thrashing down outside is absent. I slip out of bed and dress quickly—it's not raining, but it's still cold.

 

At the top of the stairs I slowly push open the only other door on the first floor. Malfoy is face down and spread out across the large bed he insisted on having the previous night. I take a step into the room before I register the fact that Malfoy is topless, then step back to close the door again.

 

Before I do anything else, I bring in our luggage from the car. It is only a few suitcases (Malfoy's clinking suspiciously, despite the effort I made) and a carrier bag of food. I'm glad I packed Weasley jumpers almost exclusively; it may be dry and clear outside, but it's still chilly.

 

I breakfast on a handful of nuts before deciding to take a walk. We need wood and extra food, and I very much doubt Malfoy will be up any time soon to join me.

 

On the doorstep I breathe in the fresh—if somewhat still damp—air. I am reminded anew that this was a good idea. Then I step down and my foot slides in a mass of mud the rain has created and I pull it back immediately. Sensible footwear is a thing I don't even own, let alone thought to bring. Fear threatens to well up in my throat, but I swallow it down—this is not a big deal. I take my wand out of my pocket and cast a strong Impervius charm on my shoes. After a second's thought I cast it on the legs of my trousers up to my knees as well. When I step down into the mud again, I still slip, but my shoes repel the dirt and come away clean in my next step.

 

I walk cautiously across the muddy patch of land in front of the cottage. As I pass the outbuildings and reach the narrow lane I spot what seems to be an old and overgrown vegetable patch. It looks very neglected, and I try not to imagine Monty on his knees with brown fingers.

 

Slowly, I make my way over walls and stiles and across fields towards the only thing resembling a house that I can see from the cottage's vantage point. It's further away than it looks, but when all I can see in every direction is fields, trees, bushes and one large expanse of water, perspective is rather lost.

 

As I approach the building I see it is a small house with an array of outbuildings and animals. I knock on the door, hoping the occupier will have spare wood and food they are willing to sell. My hope turns to despondency when no one answers. I look around, for want of anything more productive to do.

 

Around the side of the house I see some fresh, and wide, tyre marks in the mud. They seem to lead from a small outbuilding and out along a track towards the fields. A tractor, of course. As a farmer, the house's occupant would have been up and out at the crack of dawn. Our wood and food would have to wait a little while. I could come back later—maybe Malfoy would even join me.

 

I make the trek back to the cottage and feel that my journey was not entirely wasted. Then, as I cross the open space between the few outbuildings and the house, I misstep. My feet go flying out from under me and I end up laying in my back in the mud. For a few seconds I simply lay there, breathing calmly and assessing the situation and my emotions. I decide I'm quite justified in covering up my mortification with misplaced anger.

 

Once I've slipped and slid to my feet I stamp my way (as angrily and _carefully_ as possible) to the door. When I'm inside I first take my anger out on the door by slamming it shut. Next in line is Malfoy, as I bellow up the stairs.

 

“Wake up, you lazy bastard!”

 

“There's no need to shout,” comes Malfoy's calm voice from behind me. The fact that it makes me jump just mortifies/angers me further.

 

I growl in response and head straight to the fire to warm up.

 

“Did you know you're covered in mud?” Malfoy asks as he follows me through the house.

 

I toss a glare over my shoulder, but Malfoy doesn't see it because his eyes are on my back—my mud-covered arse, to be precise, and I blush in more than one kind of embarrassment.

 

“Thanks for telling me, I'd never've noticed.” I try to add a note of fury to my sarcasm, but I know I fail. I spin around to keep my muddy back from Malfoy's view. “I went to find our nearest neighbour, but they were out. It's a farmer and he's about somewhere on a tractor. We should keep an eye out for him, or go back later. Hopefully he'll have food and wood to sell us.”

 

“Speaking of wood...” says Malfoy, tilting his head to indicate the fireplace behind me.

 

I don't want to turn around, and I don't need to. I can tell by the lack of warmth at my back that there is no fire burning.

 

“We've ran out.” I sigh. “We could use more chairs?” I suggest.

 

“And sit on the floor? I'd rather share body heat.”

 

The comment—and Malfoy's mocking tone—throws me. I am instantly and impulsively defensive.

 

“Well I'm not sharing my body heat with you, so think of something else or bloody well freeze,” I snap.

 

“Fucking _fine_ ,” Malfoy grounds out before storming over to the front door.

 

He throws it open and for a split second I think he's going to _Accio_ a forest onto us, despite my warning last night. Instead, he shoots off another blasting spell through the door.

 

“Happy now? Where's the food?”

 

As Malfoy moves off to find sustenance I step into his vacated position at the front door. What used to be a small shed across from the house is now a pile of firewood.

 

I start to despair at the fact that Malfoy drunk or hungover is more ingenious than I am sober.

 

\- - -

 

The rest of the day passes by the fire, which is now alive with heat. Malfoy abandons his still unfinished bottle of whiskey and instead produces a bottle of red wine from his bag. I would frown at him disapprovingly, but I’m gagging for a drink, so instead I root in the kitchen cupboards for suitable glasses.

 

It’s when we are eating day-old sandwiches and sipping the wine that I feel the most at ease since we arrived. I glance over at Malfoy who is slumped in his chair, looking less miserable than he usually does, so I assume he’s not hating it here.

 

I think about ‘here’—Monty’s cottage. I wonder how he came to own a little place in the middle of Cumbria’s nowhere.

 

“How did Monty end up in possession of this place, anyway?” I ask.

 

Malfoy shrugs and says, “I don’t know,” before taking another sip of his wine.

 

Frowning, I say, “You really don’t like to talk about your family much, do you?”

 

“I fail to see why my family's of any interest to you. I've absolutely no interest in yours. I dislike relatives in general and in particular my own.”

 

His reference to my family is so casual, and I know—I know—he doesn’t mean anything by it or even realise how much it hurts me. But then I think about the Dursleys, and how I want nothing to do with them. I think about Draco’s family—his father, the war—and I can understand why he wouldn’t want to talk about them. But—

 

“Don't they love you, though? Your parents, I mean, don't they care about—”

 

“Themselves. They care about themselves. And they certainly don't like me being on stage, not after Monty.”

 

I bite my lip, but it’s my fault the relaxed mood has turned sour, and I seek to rectify that any way I can.

 

“They must be delighted with your career, then,” I say mildly.

 

“Why?” Malfoy frowns at me, seeming genuinely puzzled.

 

“You're not on stage.”

 

“You fucking—” starts Malfoy, but I don’t get to find out what I fucking am, because Malfoy reaches for his wand and discovers it’s not there. He looks puzzled, because he's really not _that_ drunk. He’s so used to losing his wand, though, that his face soon clears and he reaches for the wine, instead.

 

I push the wand further up my sleeve and marvel at how easy Malfoy is to pickpocket when he’s tipsy.

 

We’re just getting back to our sandwiches when we hear it; the unmistakeable roar of a large engine, which around here can only be the sound of a tractor. Our eyes meet and the food falls from our hands as we race to the door.

 

The tractor is passing by close to the cottage, and although we have to run and wave our arms, it does stop and we do catch up. It has started to drizzle and the ground is still a mud bath. I look at Malfoy, who is huddling in his tweed coat with mud spattered up his legs—I belatedly realise I should have put an Impervius on his shoes. He looks miserable.

 

“Are you all right?” the farmer asks with a voice full of concern.

 

I am about to reply when Malfoy beats me to it.

 

“We’ve gone on holiday by mistake,” he says miserably.

 

“Shh,” I hiss in Malfoy’s ear. “Let me deal with it.” I turn to the farmer and smile. “Hello. We’re staying in this cottage; Montague Malfoy’s cottage, do you know him?”

 

“Fat fella?” asks the farmer. “He hasn’t been up here in years. Last time I saw him he was here with his son, I think.”

 

I have to close my eyes at the implications I understand from that. “Yeah, that’s him.”

 

“Strange bloke.”

 

“Yeah.” I force a laugh. “We’ve found ourselves with no wood; could we possibly buy some from you?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll bring you some up later, once I’m done on the fields.”

 

“And—” I don’t want to seem greedy, but we are desperate. “—some food? Fresh eggs or bread, or…”

 

The farmer looks at me for a few seconds before his eyes pass over to Malfoy, still standing silently, huddled in his coat, before he nods. “I can bring you a chicken down.”

 

“Thank you,” I gush. “Thank you so much!”

 

The farmer just nods again.

 

I step back to let him go on his way, but Malfoy remains where he is. I reach out to pull on his arm, but he shakes me off.

 

“What happened to your leg?” Malfoy asks out of the blue.

 

It’s then I first register the farmer’s leg. It is done up in plaster straight out in front of him and wrapped in plastic for protection against the rain. I would never have asked, but I can’t say I’m not curious.

 

“I’ve got a randy bull up there in the top field. You don’t want to get caught between him and his ladies, let me tell you.” He laughs mirthlessly before heaving a breath. “Right, I’ll swing by later with your bits.”

 

\- - -

 

I spend the rest of the afternoon in a state of ambivalence. I'm relieved we found the farmer and that he's agreed to bring us wood and food, but I am also worried he was just humouring us to get us to leave him alone and he won't actually show up.

 

Malfoy seems to have no such qualms, with his afternoon being occupied by his shoes. Without his wand he is reduced to Muggle methods to clean them. He gets the excess mud off them, but drying them is impossible. In the end he ties their laces together and hangs them over the fireplace. I _would_ cast the required charms myself, but Malfoy doesn't ask me to, so, I don't.

 

I relax in my chair and think about the chicken we'll (hopefully) be eating later. It doesn't take me long to realise we can't just eat chicken—we'll need something to go with it. Then I remember Monty's vegetable patch out front. It's been years, apparently, but surely there's _something_ there that's edible?

 

“I think Monty used to grow vegetables just past where the shed used to be,” I say casually to Malfoy.

 

“Mmm?” Malfoy doesn't look up from the book he requisitioned from my luggage.

 

“If there were carrots or potatoes or something out there we could have them with the chicken later.”

 

This piques Malfoy's interest and he raises an eye at me over his—my—book. “That wouldn't be unpleasant.”

 

“Great, so you nip out and get some and I'll prepare a pot to boil them in.” I say it as if it's already decided, but it doesn't help.

 

“Oh, I'd love to,” says Malfoy, not dropping the book an inch. “Unfortunately my shoes are still drying.” He indicates the boots dandling above the fire “Shame.”

 

Pausing for a few seconds, I weight up my options before making a decision.

 

“So, you'd go if it weren't for your shoes?”

 

“Gladly.”

 

“Here you go, then.” I hold out Malfoy's wand. The book drops into his lap as he reaches out to grab the wand.

 

“Thank fuck. Where did you find it?” he asks.

 

I shrug. “About.” Thankfully Malfoy doesn't seem to notice my awkwardness and doesn't press further. “So, you can go get us some veg now, right?”

 

“Sure, yeah,” says Malfoy.

 

I put the enthusiasm in his voice at having to go outside down to getting his getting his wand back.

 

Leaving Malfoy to sort his shoes out, I head through to the kitchen. I root in the cupboards where I find a colander and a chopping board. I'm opening drawers looking for the knives I _know_ I've seen when I hear the front door open. What I don't hear is Malfoy leave.

 

Instead I hear, “ _Accio_ _potatoes_!” and slap my palm to my forehead so hard it hurts.

 

I dash through to Malfoy just in time to see him pelted with potatoes before he twists and hides behind the door.

 

Waltzing over to the door (once I'm sure the assault of potatoes has stopped), I start to pick up the potatoes that are scattered across the floor. I can't resist the 'I told you so' this opportunity has presented to me.

 

“Imagine how bad it would have been last night if I'd let you _Accio_ the forest,” I say to Malfoy, standing up my arms full of potatoes. “I cast Impervius on my shoes, I suggest you clean yours and do the same.”

 

I hear Malfoy mumble a retort, but don't hear the words.

 

What he says becomes clear when I am hit by volley of carrots.

 

\- - -

 

Malfoy is sulking by the fire when the farmer arrives. I don't know why he's sulking, after the trick he pulled with the carrots I'm sure I'll have bruises—he should be feeling smug. But whatever, I leave him to it and go out to meet the farmer.

 

Together the farmer and I unload a large amount of wood into the outhouse closest to the cottage. I pay him for the wood and ask about the chicken. He has brought us one, and insists I don't pay for it. When he hands it over to me, I see why.

 

I take the chicken in and put it on the table behind Malfoy.

 

“Chicken's here,” I tell him.

 

“Good, I'm—” Malfoy stops as he turns from his place in front of the fire. “What the hell is that?”  
  
“A chicken.”

“What are we supposed to do with it?”

 

“Eat it.”

 

“Eat it? Fucker's alive!”

 

The chicken bobs its head before taking a step towards us on the table. We both take a step back.

 

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I confirm the obvious. “And you're going to be the one to kill it.”

 

“No,” says Malfoy simply. He adds emphasis with a shake of his head before reaching out for his second (third?) bottle of wine today and taking a swig.

 

“Why not?” I hear the whine in my voice, but I don't even care. I do _not_ want to be a chicken murderer.

 

“No. I'm fuel and wood, not poultry and murder.” Malfoy points an accusing finger at the chicken as though it has personally offended him.

 

“Well I was the one who was just outside lugging our brand new supply of fuel and wood about, so _you_ can be the one to off the chicken.”

 

Malfoy purses his lips, but seems to have no reply to this.

 

“Fine,” Malfoy finally says. “I'll kill the chicken _if_ you prepare it for the pot. Plucking and... what not.”

 

“Yes, fine.” I agree easily because anything is preferable to ringing that chicken's neck.

 

I worry about the deal I've just made when Malfoy's response is to grin at me. Before I can voice my unease, Malfoy whips out his wand and points it at the chicken.

 

“ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

 

A bright flash of green fills the room and when it fades, the chicken is laying on the table, unmoving and clearly dead.

 

“What the fuck did you just do?” I ask, all my nerves suddenly alive and worried.

 

“Killed the chicken,” says Malfoy easily, like it's nothing that he just threw an AK around in a Muggle cottage.

 

When Malfoy sits back down in his chair by the fire he leaves his wand dangling loosely from his hand. Without even thinking I pull the wand swiftly from his grasp and swap it out for his nearby bottle of wine. Malfoy seems to think nothing of it, he just takes another gulp from the bottle. I wonder if he's so far gone right now that he doesn't realise I've just taken his wand, or if he _wanted_ me to.

 

Honestly, I hope it's the latter.

 

I back slowly away from Malfoy, determined to hide his wand somewhere so obscure even I might forget where it is.

 

\- - -

 

While I'm plucking and gutting the chicken I assume Malfoy is still sitting by the fire, drinking wine and looking morose. I'm wrong.

 

As I am rinsing the blood off my hands (I considered using an _Accio_ on the chicken's innards, but then remembered the carrots) when Malfoy jumps into view in the kitchen doorway.

 

“Stick 'em up,” he says.

 

For a second I'm completely boggled, but then I spot the double-barrelled shotgun in his hands, and mine fly up into the air, splattering watered-down chicken blood across the kitchen.

 

“Malfoy, no! Put it down.”

 

“It's not loaded.” Malfoy points the gun at the window and pulls the trigger. It makes a click, but nothing is fired and the window remains intact.

 

I take the opportunity to run to Malfoy and grab the gun from him. Acting on instinct I can only have picked up from watching too many films, I snap the gun and the barres pull apart from the handle. I wouldn't know a loaded gun from an unloaded one, but when I hold it up I can see clearly all the way through, which seems like a good sign. I snap it back into place and give it back to Malfoy.

 

“Fine, but don't point it at me.” If it keeps him occupied and he can't kill me with it, I have no reason to confiscate it. Besides which the place I found for his wand is too small to hide a shotgun.

 

“I'll point it wherever I want to,” Malfoy replies, but I notice he does, indeed, not point it at me.

 

Standing in the middle of the room, Malfoy holds the gun up to his shoulder and peeks over the barrels. He spins in a slow circle, as though looking for an enemy to shoot. At some, seemingly random, point he stops and clicks the trigger. “Bang!” he says as he recoils backwards, as though from the force of a shot.

 

I hate myself for finding it adorable.

 

“Is that the chicken?” Malfoy asks, gun pointed at the now mostly featherless bird carcass.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Shouldn't it be more plucked than that?” He pokes the chicken with the end of the gun.

 

“No.”

 

I grab the chicken up and throw it into a pan. We now have enough wood to fuel the Aga in the kitchen, and I push the pan swiftly inside it.

 

Malfoy just shrugs before hoisting the gun to his shoulder again and stalking out of the room. I can't prevent the smile that tugs at my lips at the sight. But still, while the chicken is cooking I scour the house until I find Monty's stash of bullets for the shotgun and hide them away with Malfoy's wand.

 

By the time dinner is ready Malfoy has given up on the wine, instead drinking water and bragging about how tasty the potatoes and carrots are (not that he had anything to do with cooking them). All in all the dinner passes well, with the lightest mood since we arrived. It's also simply a decent meal, with pleasant company.

 

\- - -

 

On our second morning in Cumbria we agree we need to take a trip into the nearest village for supplies. The food we brought from London is poor and won't last long, while the left over chicken was eaten cold for breakfast.

 

I convince Malfoy to walk, telling him the fresh air will clear his hungover head. And it does. He talks non-stop as we make our way through fields, on the straightest path possible towards the village.

 

We buy the essentials, which for us is bread, cheese and booze. I restrict our alcohol purchase to one bottle of wine, telling Malfoy we brought plenty with us (I actually have no idea how much we brought with us, or how much we have already drunk). I can't afford much more.

 

On our way out of the village Malfoy stops at a phone box to call his agent. He's had the same agent for the last three and a half years, and I've never seen them do anything but fight. I think Malfoy only sticks with her because she's used to putting up with his demands and drama.

 

Watching Malfoy use a phone is always an amusing experience. The number of times he's had to use one to speak to his agent, you'd think he'd know how to use it, but apparently how to use a telephone is just not information Malfoy can retain. He picks up the receiver and looks at it suspiciously before bringing it to his ear, and every time he will try to dial the number before putting the coins in. He does always remember the number, which surprises me, but then again he does only have the one number to remember.

 

Today's phone call is no different from all the others, and before I know it Malfoy is talking heatedly into the receiver.

 

“You get 10% to do that.” A pause while his agent no doubt disagrees in some way. “Then lick 10% of the arses!”

 

The conversation seems to deteriorate into name calling and petty squabbles from then on and I tune it out. I think instead about breaking out the cards I brought along and convincing Malfoy to play a few games with me. I brought an old chess set, too, but I don't think Malfoy is ready for that yet. Maybe when we're down to only a bottle or two left.

 

I am snapped out of my thoughts by the loud noise of Malfoy slamming down the receiver, then picking it up and slamming it down again.

 

“That well, huh?” I ask.

 

“I've been asked to understudy. _Understudy_.” Malfoy literally scoffs as he stomps off down the road.

 

I hurry to catch him up. “What part?”

 

“Konstantin, in The Pigeon.”

 

“The Seagull,” I correct.

 

“Whatever, it's fucking ridiculous either way. A fucking _understudy_.”

 

“It's a job, Malfoy. Understudying is money for almost nothing. A run-through once a week, watching a free play every night, why is that so bad?” I don't point out we _need_ the money, because Malfoy still doesn't know that, and I still don't want to tell him. I would take this job in a heartbeat, but it's not mine to take.

 

“A stupid bloody Russian play, why would I want to sit and watch that every night?”

 

“How would acting in it every night be any different?”

 

“I'd make it a hell of a lot better, for one thing. I'm not a bloody understudy, I'm an actor!” As he speaks he throws his arms out to either side, as if how wide he can spread them signifies how well he acts.

 

“It could be fun, though, just _being_ at the theatre again. The vibes and the people. Why don't you just give it a go?” It's my last ditch effort, and we both know it.

 

“Shut up,” is all Malfoy says.

 

I've underestimated how much Malfoy thinks of himself and of his acting. Of course he'll never take this job. He believes bit parts and understudying are beneath him. It's the limelight or nothing for Malfoy, regardless of how much he might or might not enjoy the role.

 

We walk for a long time in silence.

 

\- - -

 

Malfoy is talking again by the time we are clambering over fences and making out way through fields not too far from the cottage. He's still moaning, though, of course.

 

“She said a stage name would help because my name is too unusual. What's wrong with my name?”

 

“Absolutely nothing,” I say, not stupid enough to answer with anything else.

 

“I know. I mean, what would I change it to? John Smith? Richard Jones? Harry Taylor? _Boring_.”

 

“Oi.”

 

“ _Bore-ring_ ,” repeats Malfoy with emphasis.

 

I suddenly feel like poking the beast. “Your name _is_ a bit weird.”

 

“It's not weird, it's unique. I am rememberable not just for my exceptional performances, but also for a name I don't share with a dozen other actors. And my name has _meaning_. It's wasn't simply pulled out of a hat, it—”

 

I roll my eyes and tune Malfoy out. Instead of an argument, I'm getting a lecture, with is always worse.

 

As we draw closer to the cottage we take lanes carved out by the farmer's many trips through the fields in his tractor. I can hear that tractor nearby as I open a gate and pass through, leaving Malfoy to close it behind him.

 

“Changing my name won't make me happy.”

 

I tune back in to Malfoy's words and turn to frown at him. “You're not happy?” That Malfoy is not happy is obvious, I just hadn't realised that _Malfoy_ knew he wasn't happy. I thought he'd drowned that fact in cheap wine and bad beer long ago.

 

Malfoy just shrugs at my question as he gazes out across the field towards the farmer on his tractor.

 

“He seems a happy chap,” he says. “Maybe I should ride a tractor and sell people live chickens. Is that the key to happiness?”

 

I'm about to reply—with something meaningful and life changing, I'm sure—when suddenly the farmer is clambering down from his tractor and running towards us as fast as his plastered leg will allow, waving his arms at us.

 

“What's he doing?” I ask

 

“Not being as happy as I had perceived, I think. He looks rather stressed. Shh—” We are both quite while we try to hear what the farmer is shouting. Malfoy thinks it, “Sounds like...”

 

“Bull,” I finish for him, my voice barely above a whisper.

 

In an instant Malfoy has jumped over the nearby wall and I am alone facing down an angry-looking bull, pushing its way through the unclosed gate behind us.

 

Time seems to stop while the bull and I face off. Or maybe the bull is already looking past me at the cows that graze in the field below. Maybe I am just a speck of dirt to be trod on on the bull's way to an evening of sex. I suddenly realise this bull is getting more sex than I am—than I may ever will, if he tramples me to death, right here and now.

 

“What shall I do?” I say aloud to myself. Unexpectedly, I get two answers.

 

“Scream and shout, loud as you can, and run at him—don't let him know you're scared!” is the farmer's advice, having finally reached us.

 

“Shame about the witness; doubles your work, really—and I can't help.” Malfoy holds up his empty hands and stares pointedly at the farmer as he shares his suggestion.

 

It takes me a few seconds to register Malfoy's words. Is he seriously telling me to use magic in front of a Muggle and then Obliviate him?

 

“Your choice of spell. Anything too violent would be hard to explain,” Malfoy continues.

 

Yes. Yes, he is.

 

On one side I have the farmer, yelling frantically about shouting and running at the bull. On the other side I have Malfoy, grinning and eager for me to use magic to get myself out of this situation. As much as the farmer might be experienced with bulls, I can't help but remember his leg, plastered and wrapped in plastic. And because really, with my life in the balance, I'm going to believe that Malfoy can get me out of it; he's got himself out of worse.

Deciding what to do and actually doing it are two different things, however. And I am the only person here staring down the barrel of an angry nose-ringed bull. In the end, it comes too easily. It's been so long since I've had a physical foe to fight, the thrill that fills my veins is almost welcome.

 

I used to be so good at this—at righting wrongs, at fighting evil. Most of the things that need fighting now-a-days are completely different. They are intangible; they don't have a physical body I can cast spells to protect against. They're not sentient; they don't have a plan I can deduce and thwart. I've been a witness to Malfoy's self destruction for years now. I don't know how to fight it, and I don't know how to deal with the fact that I can't fight it.

 

But I can fight this. I drop our bag of shopping, whip out my wand and cast a Repelling Charm. The bull is pushed back through the gate by the force of my spell and I quickly turn to the farmer. He looks bewildered at what has just happened, and is gaping wordlessly at his bull.

 

“Sorry about this,” I say. He turns to me and I don't hesitate. As soon as our eyes meet I cast, “ _Obliviate_.”

 

When I turn around I see Malfoy, back on my side of the wall next to a firmly shut gate.

 

He looks exhilarated and pleased, not like I could have just been trampled by a randy bull.

 

I know what's coming before he says it.

 

“This calls for an evening at the pub!”

 

\- - -

 

After a dinner of cheese sandwiches and boiled potatoes, we head to the pub. The light is already failing and although it looks beautiful, all I can think about is whether we'll be able to find our way home later, in the dark and drunk.

 

The walk is shorter than the walk to the village, the pub being a tiny thing just as in the middle of nowhere as Monty's cottage. Inside it is rowdy, though, and we feel right at home.

 

Malfoy orders us a couple of double whiskeys and pints and we drink them at the bar. Having had so little to eat, I soon start to feel unsteady on my feet and move to sit down at a recently vacated table in the corner. Malfoy, however, stays behind.

 

From my seat I see Malfoy strike up a conversation with the barman, both looking serious. Then the barman pours him a couple more whiskeys and two full pints, which Malfoy does not pay for before he carries them (far too steadily, for a drunk) over to where I am sitting.

 

“What was that about?” I ask before Malfoy even sits down.

“What was what about?” he replies innocently.

 

Whatever it was about isn't so important that the drinks can wait, and I take a large sup of beer before continuing.

 

“You, chatting solemnly to the barman and not paying for drinks.” Speaking of drinks, I take another sip. “What were you talking about?”

 

“War,” says Malfoy before downing his double whiskey.

 

“War,” I repeat sceptically.

 

Malfoy nods. “He was in the army back in the day, fought in some war or other. I told him how I'd fought in a war, myself. Didn't tell him what side, obviously.” He pauses for a second and tips his head to the side. “Or what war, actually. Anyway, we bonded, he gave me free booze. Nice bloke.”

 

“Nice bloke?” In my alcohol-induced haze I realise I seem to have started repeating Malfoy's words back to him, but I'm inclined not to care.

 

“Yes. Anyone who gives me free booze is a nice bloke.”

 

“I give you free booze all the time!” I all but cry. It's true, I'm always buying our drinks.

 

“And you're a very nice bloke,” says Malfoy as he lays a placating hand on my shoulder and moves it back and forth a few times. I smile into my beer.

 

Bolstered by the incident with the bull, and not a little giddy from booze induced touching, I get a little brave. For the rest of the evening I cast a mild Confundus at the barman. Not enough to frazzle him or raise suspicion, but enough to keep the free drinks coming.

 

\- - -

 

Several hours later we are the last people left in the pub. When the barman calls, “Time, gentleman,” for the third or forth time, I loll my head in Malfoy's direction.

 

“I'm not going to Confund him this time. I'm tired, let's make our way back.”

 

Malfoy grunts from his slumped position in the chair opposite me and I take it as assent. I am about to heave myself up from my seat and stumble to pull Malfoy from his when the door to the pub bangs open.

 

Inside steps a very tall, very broad and generally very intimidating man. His clothes seem to be bulging which, in the poor light, I at first take for muscles. When he passes us and makes his way to the bar I see he has a hunchback and start to seriously question my vision. Only when the man pulls an eel—a real eel, not a euphemistic one—from his trousers and bashes its head on the bar do I realise what I'm seeing.

 

“Malfoy,” I hiss across to the man still slumped across from me. I give up and kick him in the shin under the table.

 

“Fucker!” hisses Malfoy right back at me as he bolts upright in his seat.

 

“Malfoy,” I try again more reasonably.

 

“What?” asks Malfoy, reaching down to rub his shin.

 

“Poacher,” I say with what I hope is a subtle incline of my head towards the bar.

 

Malfoy turns to look at the lumpy man who still has the eel dangling from his hand.

 

“Okay.” And with that Malfoy collapses back in his seat.

 

My shoulders sag and I roll my eyes. I'm not beyond giving him another kick in the shin.

 

“Go ask him for something,” I push.

 

“Why?” mumbles Malfoy from halfway down his seat.

 

“So we can eat?” I suggest.

 

Food perks Malfoy up and he's on his feet in a flash, looking much better than I feel.

 

“Excuse me, Poacher,” says Malfoy as he approaches the man at the bar. Already I regret what I've done.

 

“What'd you say?” says the poacher.

 

“I said 'excuse me'.” Malfoy's voice suddenly slows, and I want to hide under the table, but I started this and I feel the least I should do it watch.

 

“You're excused.” The poacher's voice is final and he turns back to the bar.

 

Apparently Malfoy can't take a hint when it's thrown in his face, because he says, “You're a poacher. I'd like—”

 

“Piss off,” the poacher practically spits back at Malfoy. “I'd like you to piss off.”

 

“You're not a very friendly bloke, are you? I was just wondering if I could make a purchase.”

 

“No.”

 

“No you're not a friendly bloke or no I can't make a purchase?”

 

“Both. And if you don't leave me alone right now I'll poach you right from that little cottage you're staying in.”

 

Malfoy opens his mouth to say something—something bad, no doubt—but I have enough wits left about me to throw a non-verbal Silencing Charm at him. I then quickly make my way to them, leading Malfoy by the shoulder.

 

“We'll just be going now, so sorry to disturb you,” I say quietly to the poacher as we pass him.

 

I head straight for the door, dragging Malfoy in my wake.

 

\- - -

 

The next morning I don't even bother trying to drag myself out of bed before noon. We had stumbled home in the dark the previous night, following nothing but our instincts to get back to the cottage. Malfoy kept shaking my shoulder and gesturing wildly and I was starting to get frustrated with him until I realised it was because I hadn't cancelled the Silencing Charm. When I'd stopped laughing long enough to remove it Malfoy had been more than a little pissed off.

 

I smile at the thought as I stretch out in bed. My comfortable reminiscing is brought to a halt when I hear a clattering downstairs and realise Malfoy must be up already. Somewhat ashamed that I managed to lounge around in bed longer than Malfoy, I get up immediately.

 

“Morning,” I say pleasantly as I enter the living room to find Malfoy crouching by one of the windows.

 

“Umm,” is all Malfoy has to offer.

 

I walk over and look out of the window Malfoy is staring out of.

 

I can see fields and hedges and paths and countryside. It is nice and all, but Malfoy’s staring seems a little too intense to simply be enjoying the scenery.

 

“What you looking at?” I ask.

 

Malfoy jumps, apparently having not registered my greeting or presence.

 

“He’s out there,” whispers Malfoy, eyes back on the window.

 

“Who?”

 

“The poacher.”

 

“What? No he’s not.”

 

“Oh? Were you keeping a look out from your bedroom window while you slept all morning?”

 

I take a moment to sulk at the fact I have no retort before saying, “Where is he then?”

 

“Out there.” Malfoy points helpfully out of the window at nothing in particular.

 

“Thanks for that.”

 

“He’s moving about. He was over there.” Malfoy points off to the left. “Then I lost sight of him until he showed up over there.” Malfoy points to the right. “He spent a good long while prowling just there.” Malfoy points straight ahead.

 

“He’s a poacher, he’s just out hunting, or checking his traps or whatever.”

 

“This close to where we’re staying? Why have we not seen him before?”

 

“Because we’ve only been here a few days? Because we weren’t looking? Because it doesn’t matter? Don’t get paranoid, Malfoy.”

 

“It’s only paranoia if I’m irrational or delusional. He was threatening last night—that’s not irrational. He is wandering about close to our house—that’s not delusional.”

 

I sigh and wonder if Malfoy has already been drinking this morning. I need to get his mind of this poacher nonsense.

 

“Leave off for a bit, yeah? Let’s have lunch and play some cards. If he’s still there later this afternoon, then—” Then what? I don’t fucking know, I’m already half convinced he really is stalking us. “—then we’ll deal with it. But he won’t be. His threatening us was just to get us to leave him alone.” I hope I sound convincing to Malfoy, because I’m not buying it.

 

“He threatened us,” Malfoy repeats slowly, “so we’d leave him alone.”

 

“Yeah, so why would he come looking for us, now we’ve done just that?”

 

“Okay,” says Malfoy with a small nod. He moves away from the window after one last gaze out into the fields.

 

For the next few hours we eat, drink and play Shithead. Other than periodically taking long glances out of the window I think we almost forget about the poacher completely. At least until it starts to get dark.

 

Once Malfoy can't make out anything past the end of the drive, he starts to get skittish. The slightest noise makes him twitch—even the cork popping as I open another bottle of wine, which has only ever made him jump with eagerness before. I've only kept him as calm as he is by suggesting we just leave in the morning. I don't know where my own (relative) level-headedness is coming; the instinct I have to worry about Malfoy is stronger than the instinct to worry about everything else.

 

“It makes perfect sense,” says Malfoy as he paces up and down in front to the fire. “He scouted the place out during the day, and he's planning to attack at night. We should be on the alert. Where's my damn wand? We should probably share a bed tonight. I wonder if I could find the bullets to—”

 

“What?” I choke out.

 

“For the gun.” Malfoy stops pacing and looks at me. “If I don't have my wand, it would be good if I had _something_ to defend myself with.”

“No.” I shake my head, still unsure if I heard correctly. “You want us to share a bed?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Well, it makes sense. He can't pick us off individually then. When he comes, he'll have to deal with both of us.”

 

“I... am not comfortable sharing a bed with you.” This is true, I'm just not going to elaborate on why I'm not comfortable with it.

 

Malfoy looks disappointed and I realise how scared he is and _of course_ he doesn't want to be on his own.

 

“How about we sleep down here on the sofas?” Two separate sofas.

 

“I'll do my back in sleeping on a sofa, it's no good. The double bed up there is plenty big enough. Why are you being so awkward?”

 

Why is Malfoy being so insistent? I can't sleep with him— _next_ to him.

 

“Stop worrying so much. We don't need to share a bed, you don't need to find the bullets. Let's go to bed, and in the morning we can laugh about this.”

 

“You won't be laughing when he has your head shoved up his hump. Or when he sells your flesh to the barman. Or when you're being roasted with garlic and stuffing.”

 

“When did one bloke's threats turn into us being cannibalised?”

 

“When the threat was to _poach_ us, you nincompoop.”

 

As Malfoy's distress reaches nonsense name calling levels, my own reaches undeniablity.

 

“Shit,” I say. Suddenly it's all real, and we are in serious danger. I throw the strongest locking charm I know at the door. “Okay, I'll sleep with you.”

 

The pleased smile Malfoy gives me makes fearing for my life almost worth it.

 

I consider giving Malfoy back his wand, but don't think drunk, obsessive fear _and_ magic would mix well. Besides which Malfoy seems quite attached to his double barreled shotgun.

 

“Threatening someone with a huge gun is pretty scary, right?” he asks me.

 

“It worked on me,” I reply, “and I had my wand on me at the time.”

 

Malfoy nods repeatedly. “Good, good. The gun sleeps with me too.”

 

“Speaking of sleeping, can we? I just want this night over so we can go home.”

 

\- - -

 

In bed I can’t sleep, and not because of the poacher. I’m sure this bed isn’t a full double; I’m far too close to Malfoy. It doesn’t help that Malfoy insisted on bringing the shotgun to bed. The way Malfoy is cuddling it seems entirely unhealthy.

 

When our shoulders brush and remain touching, I am altogether made more anxious and strangely calmed at the same time. Eventually, with the sound Malfoy’s even breathing in my ears and the touch of him at my shoulder, I begin to doze.

 

I don’t know how long I sleep, but my eyes suddenly snap open at a sound outside. I remain still, listening intently for the noise to be repeated. It is. I turn to look at Malfoy, who is lying stiff as a board beside me, eyes wide.

 

“You heard that?” Malfoy whispers so quietly I have to crane my neck to get close enough to hear him.

 

I nod. “Footsteps,” I whisper back just as quietly.

 

“But you locked the door—he’s a Muggle, he can’t get in.” Malfoy picks the middle of the night to finally start talking rationally about the poacher situation.

 

“What if he’s not a Muggle?” I’m too far gone for rational, apparently.

 

Malfoy is about to whisper back when there is a scuffling below us outside, followed by a smash. We stare at each other for long horrified seconds; we hadn’t even considered the windows.

 

“Why did you put up some Muggle repelling charms?” Malfoy hisses.

 

“Why didn't you ask me to?” I hiss right back.

 

By unspoken agreement we clutch each other’s arms, holding on to each other and our lives while we still have them.

 

“I can’t go down without a fight, but I also hope he makes it quick,” Malfoy says quietly into my ear.

 

Realistically, I’m confident I can take care of one psychotic Muggle alone, but still, I really start to regret not giving Malfoy his wand back.

 

Footsteps seem to echo through the house and Malfoy and I are barely breathing. I hold my wand up, pointed straight at the door, as the footsteps begin to make their way up the stairs. Malfoy's grip on my arm is painfully tight, but it keeps me focused.

 

As the door to our bedroom is slowly pushed open light seeps in through the gap. The idea that our would-be murderer is unstealthy enough to carry a torch gives me pause. The pause in enough for me to hold fire for a few more seconds, and not Stupefy Monty.

 

And there Monty stands, bold as brass in the doorway to our bedroom. I can't help but laugh, even as Malfoy's iron tight grip on my arm loosens. Malfoy has a slightly different reaction.

 

“What the fuck, Monty? You scared us to bloody death!”

 

“There is no need for such language, my lad. I'm sorry it's so late, but I got a flat tire and had to wait an aeon for assistance.

 

“It's fine, Monty, really,” I say, suddenly feeling light as a kite. “Perhaps we should all get some sleep?”

 

“Yes.” Monty's eyes flick back and forth between me and Malfoy in the double bed before resting on Malfoy, to whom he asks, “I'm okay to sleep in the other room?”

 

Malfoy nods. “Yes Monty, and please refrain from trying to give me a heart attack in future.”

 

“I'll certainly do my best,” says Monty before backing his ample frame out onto the landing. “Goodnight, both.” He closes the door.

 

We collapse back into the bed in shared relief as we listen to Monty shuffle around getting ready for bed next door. We don't speak again, but we do fall asleep with our shoulders touching.

 

\- - -

 

The next morning I wake up slowly, content with the warmth that surrounds me. When I open my eyes and see a blond head on the pillow next to mine, I realise that some of that warmth is Malfoy. He is facing towards me, but his head is low on the pillow and tucked protectively low. His breathing is low and even. He isn't smirking or scowling, or shouting or laughing; it's the most peaceful I've ever seen him.

 

When Malfoy suddenly frowns in his sleep, I'm convinced it's because he can feel me watching him, and I crawl out of the bed as quickly as I can without disturbing my bedmate. I dress hastily and leave the room, but not before giving Malfoy, still curled peacefully amongst the sheet, one last look.

 

It's only when I get downstairs that I remember Monty. I can hardly forget when he's there, larger than life and unpacking a large bag of food in the kitchen.

 

“Morning, Monty,” I greet him amicably—he's now our host _and_ he has food.

 

“Morning, morning! It's a lovely day outside, perhaps we can go for a walk later—after lunch.” Monty indicates the several large bags on the table. “I have grand plans. But first, breakfast! Bacon and egg all right with you?”

 

I nod my head eagerly, but manage to refrain from drooling. After several days (weeks, months) of plain bread and cereal with possibly gone off milk for breakfast, the idea of a fry up sounds like heaven.

 

What's not heaven is the way Monty smiles at me as he fondles the eggs, an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. I look anywhere but at him.

 

“Oh,” I say, desperate for a change in the mood that has suddenly descended on the kitchen. “The windows aren't broken. We thought we heard you break one making your way inside last night.”

 

“Oh no, I merely forced the window a tad. The crash was one of the empty bottles of wine that had been left on the window sill.” Another smile from Monty, but tighter this time—disapproving.

 

I glance around and see that the several wine bottles we had left about when we'd finished them had gone, obviously collected and disposed of by Monty. I close my eyes, ashamed that Malfoy and I had failed to consider the windows as an entry point, and embarrassed at the scattered remains of our excessive drinking.

 

By the time Malfoy makes an appearance about half an hour later, Monty has started frying the bacon and is on a tirade about Muggle politics.

 

“Shat on by the Tories, shovelled up by Labour. I tell you, we never—” He cuts off when he sees Malfoy. “Good morning. I take it the delectable smells finally drew you out of bed?”

 

“That combined with the fact that the bed got cold,” Malfoy replied, looking sullen as he collapsed into a chair.

 

I can't help but notice the sleep lines on his face—impressions from the pillow I saw him tucked up to not long ago. When Malfoy yawns I look away. I think I catch Monty looking quickly away from me at the same time, and the uncomfortable feeling returns to the room.

 

We eat in amicable enough silence, save for the scrape of knives on plates, eager chewing and savouring groans. The food is good, and as uncomfortable as I am in Monty's company, right now I'm very glad he came.

 

When all three sets of knives and forks are set down on three bare plates, Monty stands.

 

“I noticed you're almost out of wine, so it's a good job I have a case in the car. Would you be a darling and go—”

 

“I'll go!” I volunteer, even though Monty was looking at Malfoy. As good as the food was, I'd appreciate the time away from Monty, even if it's just a few minutes.

 

“No, it's okay,” says Malfoy. “I'll go.”

 

I narrow my eyes at Malfoy, but he seems oblivious. Or rather, he seems happy to ignore it, instead smiling at me like he's doing me a favour.

 

“Yes.” Monty perks up at Malfoy's offer to fetch the wine. He looks at me with those predatory eyes again. “You can stay here and help me prepare my meat for lunch.”

 

I feel a little queasy at Monty's words, but force a smile I'm sure will convince nobody.

 

As Malfoy bends to put his shoes on Monty's eyes turn away from me and widen in shock.

 

“You're going out there in your shoes? Don't you have wellies?”

 

“Don't worry, Monty we have—”

 

“We _have_ wellies,” Malfoy interrupts me as he throws me a glare to keep my mouth shut. “But we left them at home. We're city boys and didn't even think to bring them!”

 

I don't know what Malfoy's issue is. Monty might not like magic shoved in his face, but I doubt simply telling him we've used magic to protect our shoes would upset him. Certainly not enough to warrant the look Malfoy gives me.

 

“Well, we can fix that. I'll drive us into the village while the dinner cooks and treat you to some proper welly boots.” Monty seems so pleased with himself.

 

Malfoy also looks pleased with himself. Pleased to be conning his own uncle out of money. I just roll my eyes.

 

As soon as Malfoy slips out the front door, the atmosphere changes. Monty holds my elbow and leans in to my personal space closer than he needs to.

 

“Come—I really need your help with my meat,” Monty all but purrs into my ear.

 

I suppress a shudder as I allow myself to be lead to the counter, where bags of more food stand waiting.

 

Monty stands at my back, still far too close, and reaches past me into one of the bags. I feel his stomach—fuck, I really hope it's just his stomach—press flush against my back and I fight the urge to squirm away. I'm still questioning myself on why the hell I _don't_ just do that when the pressure eases and Monty leans back a little, a bag of carrots clutched in his hand. Suddenly I'm filled with fond memories of Malfoy and carrots—I would much rather be back in that doorway being hit by flying carrots with Malfoy nearby than pressed up against the kitchen counter by Monty.

 

Finally, I have the courage to twist myself out of the tight spot I find myself in and move obviously away from Monty. He frowns, but does not try to stop me.

 

“What is it you want me to do, Monty?” Worrying my words will be misinterpreted, I clarify them by saying, “For lunch, I mean.”

 

“Right, lunch,” Monty replies, as if he'd completely forgotten about it. “It's the meat.” He points at a particular bag. “You should remove it, stuff it and baste it. I'll talk you through it, but I've never been able to handle raw meat.” Monty's face pales and he looks at me seriously for perhaps the first time. “As a youth I used to weep in butchers' shops.”

 

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with this information, so I force a smile and politely ignore it. I reach into the indicated bag, extract the meat and get to work.

 

It is 10 minutes later, when I have my hand stuck inside the meat as Monty—always so close—watches over my shoulder, that I wonder where the hell Malfoy is. I don't expend much time on the thought; it's probable he's outside drinking one of Monty's bottles of wine just so he doesn't have to carry as much in.

 

When I finishing stuffing Monty's meat I head to the sink to wash my hands and, unsurprisingly—but very irritatingly—Monty follows. I rinse my hands under the tap, but before I can reach for the bar of soap, Monty has grabbed it and is reaching for me.

 

“Let me,” he whispers.

 

Monty clasps one of my hands with the between the two of his plump ones.

 

It is during the several seconds I am paralysed in shock and, frankly, disgust, that Malfoy chooses to waltz back in. He glances casually in our direction at the sink and then pauses. I whip my hand forcefully from Monty’s clutches, but the damage is done.

 

Malfoy guffaws before swiftly moving past us into the living room, but not before I catch another look in his eye, something I’m not familiar with. He almost seemed annoyed, but I see Malfoy annoyed almost all the time, and that isn’t quite right.

 

When Monty reaches for my hands again I let the thought go, but not before griping, “I can wash my own hands, Monty.” He looks hurt, but he leaves me be.

 

Once I have dried my hands I start basting, which is far less messy. Still though, Monty never leaves my side.

 

Eventually, once the meat is in the oven, I am granted a breath of fresh air—literally. Or, it would be literally if I wasn’t going outside for a cigarette. Malfoy is already out there, leaning on the fence and smoking a fag of his own. I join him and bask in how much more relaxed I feel, free from Monty.

 

“We need to leave,” I say without preamble.

 

“What? Why? He’s brought booze and food.”

 

“And himself. He won’t leave me alone, Malfoy. He’s too friendly, he’s too—” I can quite bring myself to say Monty is ‘all over me’ or that he’s ‘trying to flirt me with’, though that is exactly what Monty is.

 

Although I don’t say it, I’m sure Malfoy understands. He sighs. “ _You’re_ too friendly. Stop smiling at him.”

 

“I’m _grimacing_ at him,” I protest.

 

“He doesn’t know that,” Malfoy insists before taking a last drag on his cigarette. “Stop being so nice to him, he grew up with Malfoys—he may not be magical, but he can smell weakness.”

 

“I’m not weak.” But I sound it, just then.

 

“No, but—” Another sigh. “We’ll leave after lunch, okay?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

We stub out our cigarettes and head back inside.

 

\- - -

 

It’s not long before we are back out again, Monty driving us in his fancy car into the village. I manage to avoid sitting up front beside Monty when Malfoy and I both insist Malfoy ride up front. But still, I can feel Monty’s eyes on me in the rear view mirror, and spend the journey fixedly staring out of the window.

 

Once in the town, Monty hands us a twenty pound note each with instructions to buy some wellies and meet him in the same spot in half an hour, claiming he needs to buy a few bits and bobs.

 

As soon as Monty has driven away, Malfoy spins around and makes a beeline for the pub. I trail after him, but can’t help feeling guilty.

 

“What about the wellingtons?” I ask.

 

“Who gives a fuck about the wellingtons? We'll tell Monty they were closed.”

 

“And what do we tell him we did with his money?”

 

“Spent it. Does he expect us to wait around for half an hour with nothing to do?”

 

I give up, and join Malfoy happily at the bar.

 

While we are there I use the payphone. I had an audition almost two weeks ago, and I’m yet to hear anything—good or bad. Getting back to people, even if they were bloody awful, is just polite, and I’m not afraid to hound my agent until I get a response.

 

I don’t get a response.

 

“Did you get it?” asks Malfoy as he gulps down a pint.

 

“Don’t know,” I say. “Apparently they’re still interviewing.”

 

“Still? It’s been two weeks.”

 

“I know, but there’s nothing I can do to hurry them along, is there?”

 

Malfoy harrumphs before moving onto whatever spirit he ordered us in my absence. I take a sip of my own—whiskey. I do love whiskey. I drink deep and savour the burn in my throat.

 

“It’s a crap role anyway,” says Malfoy. “Not even the lead.”

 

“It’s a fun part to play,” I argue.

 

“That’s theatre’s a pile of Centaur shite.”

 

“Have you ever even been?” I ask.

 

“And _Manchester_? Could it be more metropolitan?”

 

“We live in London,” I point out.

 

Malfoy dismisses everything I say with a wave of his hand. “You could do better, is all I’m saying.”

 

And suddenly I’m smiling. Before I can reply the barman calls time for lunchtime closing and Malfoy leans right across our section of the bar to quickly gain his attention.

 

“We’ll have two quadruple whiskies and another pair of pints.”

 

\- - -

 

By the time we leave the pub I sound slurred even to my own ears and I’m not sure what a straight line even looks like.

 

We make it back the spot where we need to meet Monty, but he’s not there. After a couple of tries to push up my sleeve I succeed and look at my watch.

 

“We’re early. Got 10 minutes, yet.”

 

“Oh,” says Malfoy. “Let’s find something to eat, then.”

 

“But, lunch, back at the house—” I’m not even convincing myself, and when Malfoy sets his sights on a quaint looking tea room, all I can think about is the possibility of cake.

 

When Malfoy pushes open the door there is a tinkle of a bell, and it's so adorable I giggle. The sea of elderly and unimpressed faces that greets us inside is as far from adorable as it is possible to be, and I laugh at that, too.

 

Malfoy remains unmoved, keeping a straight face and heading stiffly to the nearest empty table. He only falters once. When he pulls out his chair and goes to sit down, he stumbles and almost falls over the chair instead. This time I hide my laughter in my hands.

 

I don't know how Malfoy is keeping a straight face. Just a glance around the little tea shop and I want to chuckle. It is flowers and chintz and doilies everywhere and it's _awful_.

 

Suddenly I realise I'm the only person in the room smiling. Malfoy is still poker-faced, while every other person there is stone-faced. I know this because every face is turned towards us.

 

A sour looking woman standing at one of the tables takes a step towards us. Her dress looks to be made of the same material as the tablecloths, while her apron matches the net curtains in the windows.

 

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” She's obviously addressing us, but Malfoy makes a show of looking behind him and seeming puzzled.

 

“I'm sorry?” he says. And really the woman should be grateful, I'm not sure Malfoy's ever said sorry to anyone in his life.

 

“I'm asking you gentlemen to leave.”

 

“But we only just got here,” Malfoy tells her. “We haven't even ordered cake, yet.”

 

At the reminder of cake my stomach rumbles. Thankfully, there is complimentary bread on the table, which will do in the meantime. I smile, pick up a bun and start eating it.

 

“You're drunk,” states the woman.

 

“What's that got to do with anything?” Malfoy frowns and really, he's got a point.

 

“You're causing a scene.” The woman eyes the room, and so do we.

 

Malfoy taps his finger on the table, and when he speaks again there is a harsh edge to his voice. “I think you'll find you're the one causing the scene. We came in here for a quiet glass of wine and a slice of cake, but the minute we sat down we were met by a unwarrantedly disgruntled waitress and a group of miserable old farts staring at us. Really, you could provide a more welcoming atmosphere for potential customers.”

 

The woman gasps and gapes at various points through Malfoy's speech, but I'm convinced what offends her most is the word 'waitress'. She probably thinks of herself as something more akin to an attendant or a hostess.

 

In any case, her only response is, “We don't sell wine,” and this is _the_ worst thing she could have said.

 

“I demand wine.” Malfoy pounds a hand down on the tabletop. “I want the finest wines available to humanity. I want them here, and I want them now.”

  
“And cake,” I add quietly to Malfoy.

 

“And cake!” Malfoy demands with another bash on the table for emphasis. I don't even try to prevent the smile that pulls at my lips, seeing Malfoy create this craziness and indulging a small part of my own; I would never do anything like this without him here to lead the way.

 

“The lady asked you to leave.” A new voice is throw into the fray.

 

Looking around to find the speaker, I see perhaps the only other man in the place besides me and Malfoy. He's about as old as all the wrinkled faces who, at the sound of his voice, stop staring at us and turn to each other to begin heated whispers.

 

“Who the hell are you?”  asks Malfoy.

 

“I'm the proprietor of this establishment, and I am telling you to leave.”

 

“We'll leave once we've had our wine and cake.”

 

“Leave now or we'll call the police.”

At this Malfoy simply scoffs. He makes no reply and no motion to leave. I'm amazed by him, really—his bravery and humour in the face of this bunch is the only reason I'm still in my own seat.

 

“Just bring out the cake!” I cry, succumbing to Malfoy's charade. Don't they realise we're just hungry?

 

“Janis, call the police.” The old man address the waitress and she—Janis, apparently—moves behind the counter and picks up a phone.

 

As drunk as I may be, I don't actually want to be arrested by Muggles. I take one last bite of my bread before standing and holding my arms up in surrender.

 

I lean down to Malfoy. “Come on, Malfoy, let's just leave.”

 

Malfoy ignores me, unsurprisingly. He's like a dog with a bone, sometimes.

 

“You're making a mistake.” Malfoy's voice is calm, but radiates with warning. I can't help but check to make sure he's not got his wand in his hand. “I'm looking at buying this entire village. I did quite like the look of your droll little cafe, but now I think I'll flatten it and build a car park.”

 

In this tirade it seems to be the description of the place as a cafe—not café or tearoom—that offends, and this time it seems to offend everyone in there.

 

Thankfully, we are saved by the beep of a horn.

 

“Speaking of car parks, that's our ride,” I say, tapping Malfoy repeatedly on the shoulder before heading to the door.

 

Malfoy stands, but he points menacingly around the room before slowly stumbling his way backwards towards the door. Is it really my fault if I'm drawn to such an action?

 

“You haven't heard the last of this.” With that, Malfoy slams the door behind him.

 

As we make our way to Monty's car across the street, Malfoy lets out the first burst of laughter since we had walked into the tearoom.

 

“That was fun, but I wish I'd had my bloody wand,” he says.

 

“Why?” I ask as we reach the car, worried about what Malfoy would have done to the Muggles in the shop.

 

He grins at me. “I _really_ wanted to _Accio_ some of their damn cake.”

 

\- - -

 

When Monty finds out we spent his money on booze instead of wellingtons (which doesn't take long; we fall into the back of his car giggling so much we could barely breathe) he is not pleased. Malfoy and I both get a lecture on the drive home, but when we get back to the cottage it is, to my not entirely unwelcome surprise, me that Monty blames.

 

While Malfoy picks up a fresh bottle of wine and heads straight for the fireplace in the living room, I am ushered aside by Monty for a proper telling off.

 

“You're leading him astray!” hisses Monty, apparently fearful of Malfoy overhearing. “Don't think that I can't see it.”

 

I can do nothing to stop my mouth falling open in shock. “What? No, Monty it was—”

 

“I don't want to hear it. The upbringing that boy has had, it's a wonder he's here at all. He does not need you encouraging him onto a completely different path. He's destined for greater things, don't ruin him—his career with your jealously.”

 

Stunned into silence, I allow Monty to usher me towards a chopping board and hand me a vegetable peeler without an argument. I do, however, have my belief that all Malfoys are inherently insane strengthened.

 

As I stand there peeling and chopping vegetables, I ponder Monty's words. I can sort of see why he might think I'm jealous of Malfoy's career, considering the lies Malfoy has told Monty about it. In actuality there is no career to be jealous of. All Malfoy (or I) has managed is a stint or two in off (off, off) West End theatres and _hundreds_ of auditions, so I hardly think I'm impinging on his career. He is good, though. Acting seems to be so innate for Malfoy; everything is a scene or a drama. In that respect perhaps I'm jealous, but still, I'm irked, and not about the jealously. Am I the reason Malfoy drinks so much? Am I the reason Malfoy is unhappy? He's lived with me for the last four years—am I somehow holding him back?

 

In all honesty, if I would ever have thought about it before, I would have assumed it to be the other way around. Malfoy, and his slow deterioration into alcoholism, has been the driving force in my own slow descent into anxiety. Logically, if anything, surely Malfoy has been holding me back. But I know that's untrue. I know what's been holding me back is my slowly developing—and as much as possible, unacknowledged—feelings.

 

What seems to just be dawning on me now is the possibility of my own emotions, however unintentionally, having a detrimental affect on Malfoy. That thought hurts more than the knife that slices through my finger while I'm not paying attention.

 

“Okay.” Monty's voice cuts through my thoughts as cleanly as the knife sliced through my finger. “You've been punished enough. Time to swap.”

 

Assuming Monty means he is going to swap places with me, I put the knife down and, after some swift cleaning and healing spells, step away from the chopping board. Instead of taking my place, however, Monty motions me through to the living room.

 

There, Malfoy is sitting comfortably in a chair by the fire with a glass of wine in his hand. Not for long, though, as Monty forcefully pulls Malfoy up and out of the chair by his armpits. Seemingly too astonished to argue, Malfoy lets himself be pulled. He even lets the glass of wine be plucked from his hand—and placed into mine.

 

“Sit,” Monty instructs me. “Relax. Dinner will be in about an hour, I may need to cut the meat, but it can wait.” He turns to Malfoy. “You, in the kitchen.”

 

Having figured out what is going on, Malfoy makes a valiant grab for the wine glass in my hand. He gets as close as my knees, before I hold the glass out of reach and Monty, solid as he is, holds him back from getting any further.

 

“Oh no you don't,” says Monty as he pushes Malfoy back towards the kitchen. I can't hear what Malfoy says in response over Monty's deep laughter at Malfoy's futile attempts to escape.

 

Once I'm left in peace, I sit back in my newly acquired chair and sip my pilfered wine and relax. Or, I try to. I never was very good at letting it all go, at not worrying. I alternate between fidgeting and sipping the wine until neither are doing enough to suppress my need to do something. So I down the rest of the wine in my glass and stand, figuring a quick cigarette outside should be enough to calm my nerves until the food is ready.

 

At the front door I can't help but stop and take a peek into the kitchen. Monty is not there, but Malfoy is standing where I had been not too long ago, chopping vegetables. I almost feel guilty—until I spot the tell-tale swishing of a wand and realise that sneaky sod is using magic to do the work. I'd be angry, but really I'm annoyed that I didn't think of doing it myself.

 

When I'm outside and halfway through a cigarette I suddenly remember Malfoy couldn't have his wand because I've hidden it. My hand instinctively grasps at the wand holster at my thigh and finds it empty. I don't know whether to laugh or rage—the bastard hadn't been going for the wine.

 

\- - -

 

While the vegetables cook I wrestle my wand back from Malfoy. The swine isn't even sorry, grinning smugly at me like he's so proud of himself. He loses the grin when I hit him with a stinging hex and we don't speak to each other until, eventually, we sit down to lunch.

 

It can't be denied that, like breakfast, it's bloody tasty. Despite his earlier words about _me_ leading Malfoy astray, Monty has the wine flowing freeing. Monty also seems to have rekindled his attempts to unsubtly flirt with me, and I instantly regret smiling at him as we sat down to eat.

 

“I thought tomorrow, if the weather is fine, we could head down to Lake Windermere. It's been so long since I've been out here to the Lakes, and there used to be a lovely brewery at Staveley...”

 

“I'm sorry Monty, that won't be possible.”

 

“What? Why ever not?”

 

“Well, we're leaving after lunch, aren't we, Malfoy?” I glare at Malfoy as I speak, while Monty refreshes Malfoy's glass of wine.

 

“We did say that, didn't we?” Malfoy swirls the wine in his glass, but doesn't commit himself either way.

 

“But, I've come all this way to see you.” Monty hangs his head, his eyes large and pleading and I'm sure he attempts a pout. It's ridiculous, but it's also making me feel guilty and I hate it. “Why would you leave?”

 

“The poacher, for one.” I look pointedly at Malfoy and raise my eyebrows. I wonder if he remembers how petrified he was just yesterday, how inconsolable he'd been until I'd said we could share a bed and leave the next morning.

 

“Oh yes.” Malfoy pauses and affects laughter. “Did we tell you, Monty? We'd been threatened by the local poacher a couple of nights ago. When you were making your way inside last night, we were convinced it was him, breaking in to slit our throats!”

 

The way he says it now, as though the idea had been ludicrous, makes me seethe. This is the perfect excuse to leave, as we had agreed to, but instead he's making us look like fools and chuckling along merrily with Monty.

 

“Oh, you silly boys,” says Monty. “Well, stop worrying and start enjoying! Besides, I'm not letting either of you drive off, the amount you've both drunk!”

 

“I suppose we'd better toast to a delightful holiday in the country, then.” Malfoy holds up his glass and clinks it with Monty's. “Chin, chin.” His saccharine smile is the last straw.

 

“I'm going for a walk.” I practically toss down my cutlery and walk away from the table.

 

Although I hear Monty say, “Wait a few minutes and we can all go,” I don't stop.

 

\- - -

 

In the end I let them catch up to me. I realise that, as much as I don't want to be here, I'm now stuck here. There's no use cutting myself off from the people I'm stuck here with. Mostly though, I let them catch up because I want to speak to Malfoy.

 

We walk across fields towards the lake that I've barely noticed since we've been here. It's pretty and all, but I haven't felt the urge to walk its shores or take a paddle or anything. Monty seems to find it very meaningful. As we draw close he starts to tell us wistfully about his love affair with Norman, whom he brought to the cottage and walked around the lake with. All I can think about is Monty's “son” that the farmer told us about, and can't help but wonder if his name was Norman.

 

It is on the walk back, as the light begins to dim, that I get a chance to speak with Malfoy. We casually fall behind and I make sure to walk almost flush to his side, so I'm able to speak quietly without fear that Monty with hear.

 

“I'm sleeping with you again tonight,” I say without preamble.

 

“What?” Malfoy seems taken aback. “Why?”

 

It seems perfectly logical to me. “There are two beds and three people. I assume you want to share a bed with Monty about as much as I do.”

 

“Good point. But, can't you sleep on the sofa?”

 

“You couldn't wait to get me into bed last night.” I regret the words as soon as they are out of my mouth, but I can't take them back now.

 

Malfoy looks at my from the corner of his eye and raises an eyebrow.

 

“You know what I mean. You were worried about the poacher, so you didn't want to be alone. Well, I'm bloody worried about Monty, so now you get to return the favour.”

 

Sighing, Malfoy nods. “Fine, fine.”

 

“And if Monty... tries... anything, we're leaving. Okay?”

 

“He won't—”

 

“ _Okay?_ ”

 

“Okay. Fuck.”

 

I take a breath and suddenly feel lighter.

 

\- - -

 

For the rest of the evening we play cards and drink Monty's wine. I refrain from drinking too much, wary of Monty's heated gaze on me, even when my eyes are on my cards. Monty also doesn't seem to be drinking that much, and yet the wine seems to be flowing quite freely.

 

One glance at Malfoy and I see he's the drunkest he's been in weeks. And he would be; this is the most alcohol we've had access to in weeks, months even, without drugs as well. I'm not even sure Malfoy is playing cards any more. He is slumped low on his chair, barely holding his head up. As I watch, the cards he is holding fall from his hand and into his laps.

 

“Oops,” says Malfoy before laughing, but making no move to pick up his cards.

 

“I think we should get him to bed,” says Monty. When I look over at him his eyes are on me, not Malfoy and I gulp audibly.

 

“Yes,” I say to Monty before turning my attention to Malfoy. I stand and reach out to him, pulling him up from the chair by his forearms. “Come on, Malfoy, I'll get us to bed.” I glance at Monty as Malfoy collapses against me. “We're sharing, you can have the single again.”

 

“No,” Malfoy mumbles against my neck before pushing himself off of me to stand upright. “Want to be alone. Leave me alone.”

 

Monty stands and comes around the table to grasp Malfoy and hold him steady. “I'll take him to bed. Maybe you should make up the sofa, hmm?”

 

I smile—damn it—at Monty and nod my head. At least he's not suggesting he and I share a bed.

 

They are gone long enough for me to dig out some blankets from a cupboard and lay them out on the bed. I am just contemplating turning all the lights off and pretending I am already asleep when Monty comes back down the stairs and into the living room.

 

“He's dead to the world, won't be waking up any time soon, no matter what kind of racket we make.”

 

“Well, we won't need to test that theory. I'm going to go to sleep now, too. Ever so tired. So, I'll just—” I motion to the blanketed sofa, but Monty seems oblivious.

 

“Are you a sponge or a rock?” he asks.

 

“Sorry, what?” Assuming this is gay slang I wouldn't at all be familiar with, I seriously think Monty just asked me if I fuck arses.

 

“Do you allow yourself to open up and embrace life and experiences, or do you shield yourself from the world?”

 

“I—” I was wrong, apparently. “I don't know, Monty. I'm really _very_ tired and would just like to sleep right now, so...” When Monty makes no move to leave I am forced to add, “Goodnight, Monty.”

 

“Goodnight,” he says, finally. Then, at the bottom of the stairs he looks me straight in the eye so fiercely I can't bring myself to look away. While holding my eyes he says, “We don't owe him anything, you know,” before finally leaving me in peace.

 

I settle, warm and comfortable, under the pile of soft, if somewhat musty-smelling, blankets and try to relax. It doesn't work. Monty's words echo around my head. Who don't we owe anything? Malfoy? Of course not, sod's never paid for a thing in his life. But I know that's not what he meant, and I toss and turn with unease, fearing his words were a invitation I really don't want to accept.

 

\- - -

 

I'm still not asleep almost an hour later when I hear the stairs creak and footsteps descend. I stop fidgeting and immediately pretend to be asleep. The only thought going through my head is, 'Please be Malfoy, _please_ be Malfoy.'

 

It's not Malfoy.

 

“Hello?” Monty's whisper is loud in the absolute silence of the night.

 

I make no reply, huddled under my blankets, eyes screwed shut. Still, I can feel the light of a lantern through my lids and it only gets brighter the closer Monty comes.

 

“I know you're awake, I could hear the sofa springs as you tossed.”

 

I sit up instantly and clutch the blankets around me like a shield. Instinctively I reach for my wand, and hold it firmly, just in case.

 

“Yes, Monty, I'm awake, but I really want to sleep. What do you want?”

 

Monty is standing close to the sofa and moves to sit down in the space I've made by sitting up.

 

“There's no need to be so angry, my boy. I tried to leave you alone, but I can't—don't push me away.”

 

As he speaks Monty leans closer to me and it's then I realise he is wearing a loose fitting silk dressing gown. From the view the dim lantern allows, it seems he's _only_ wearing a loose fitting silk dressing gown. I turn my head away quickly.

 

“Monty stop, please. Listen, I—” I pause to think of a polite way to tell Monty how so very not interested I am, to take back all the false smiles and kindness I've shown him, but I don't get the chance.

 

“You don't have to say a word, I already know. He's already told me.”

 

He has to mean Malfoy. “What? What's he told you?”

 

“About your troubled past and your current struggles.”

 

I doubt Monty means my troubled childhood spent fighting for my life. “What struggles?”

 

“Your sexuality! Don't be ashamed of it, boy. There is nothing wrong with being queer—embrace it!”

 

My heart seems to stop. I didn't think anyone knew. _No one_ knew. “No—” I begin, “I'm not—” But I can't finish. As much as I don't want people to know, I can't lie about it. I can't deny what I am.

 

“You are. And just because he doesn't return your feelings—can't return your feelings—doesn't mean you should deny yourself the things you deserve. He can't help not wanting you, just as I can't help desiring you. So, take from me what you seek from him—he needn't know.”

 

Knowing that Malfoy knows, and having it confirmed that he doesn't— It's too much. I get up from the sofa, dragging my blankets with me.

 

“I don't care, Monty. I don't care what either of you want or do not want. You have to leave me alone.”

 

Monty stands, then, and his large frame seems to loom over me. I take a step back.

 

“I mean to have you even if it must be burglary.” The conviction in his voice leaves me in no doubt.

 

As Monty takes a step towards me, instead of moving backwards, I lift my wand from under the blankets.

 

“ _Stupefy_.” I don't hesitate, and nor do I apologise.

 

Monty falls forward, almost in slow motion, until his ample stomach hits the floor, cushioning the fall for the rest of him. I have the decency to levitate him onto the sofa, but I don't give up my blankets.

 

I don't even think as I storm my way up the stairs and into Malfoy's bedroom. I only give a cursory glance to Malfoy's bare torso as I rip the sheets from him and scream his name. It turns out Monty was wrong, and a racket can wake Malfoy. He turns and gazes at me sleepy-eyed.

 

“What?” he asks, but it sounds more like a complaint.

 

“What? _What?_ How about you telling Monty I'm gay, that I have feelings for you and that you don't feel the same way? How about Monty hitting on me all day, and then going as far as to threaten to give me a buggering? That's _what_.”

 

My words seem to wake Malfoy up some, but there is no denying the man is still drunk.

 

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his tired face. “Shit. I'm sorry, I never thought he'd go that far.”

 

“But you thought he would go a certain distance. You planned this.”

 

“No, no, it's not like that. It was a tactical necessity. I had to lie. If I hadn't made him believe you were gay he wouldn't have given us the cottage. I couldn't tell him the truth—I wouldn't have had the same effect.”

 

“You lied?” I whisper it to myself, shocked to find out that Malfoy _didn't_ actually know, but the room is quiet. I'm sure Malfoy hears when I see his eyes widen in realisation at my slip. “You lied!” I say more firmly.

 

Malfoy open his mouth to speak, to say _something—_ I don't want to know what.

 

“Shut up.” I grasp to get my ranting back on track. “All this was to get the cottage? I wouldn't have wanted to come at all if I'd known he'd follow us here.”

 

Thankfully, Malfoy goes with it. “I didn't know he'd come. It was a calculated risk.”

 

“Well that calculated risk is Stupefied on the sofa downstairs, and we're leaving in the morning.”

 

I slam the door as I leave and move to the other bedroom. As genuinely apologetic as Malfoy seemed—or could seem, while somewhere between shit faced drunk and hungover—the guilt can't be preying on his mind; not five minutes later I can hear his soft snore through the wall.

 

It takes me a long time to settle down enough to think I might sleep. My adrenaline is still high, and Monty's and Malfoy's words seem to run on a loop in my head.

 

I can't get Malfoy's words out of my head: _'I had to lie.'_ Except he hadn't. Everything he told Monty—that I'm gay, that I have feelings for Malfoy that he doesn't reciprocate—all of that is true. Malfoy didn't know the truth. Or, hadn't known. I roll onto my face and groan into my pillow when I remember the mistake I allowed to slip from between my lips. My only hope is that Malfoy is so drunk he won't remember this in the morning.

 

Then I remember the rest of Malfoy's words: _'I couldn't tell him the truth—I wouldn't have had the same effect.'_ What truth? How wouldn't Malfoy have had the same effect? The obvious answer is one I can't believe—can't let myself believe. I've lived with Malfoy for four years, I would _know_ if he was gay. I laugh, right there, lying in my bed— Would I know if Malfoy was gay, if he hadn't known I am?

 

Somehow, despite what Malfoy has done, despite how angry I am with him, despite my secret being out, when I eventually fall into a light sleep, I have a small smile on my face.

 

\- - -

 

When I wake up in the morning, I pack everything I can before I even leave the bedroom. It contains most of my clothes and books and I am more eager to leave than I am for my breakfast.

 

By the time I do leave the bedroom, I see that the door to Malfoy's is standing open. I glance inside and the room is empty. With how drunk Malfoy had been last night, I expected to have to wake him in order to leave at a decent hour.

 

I make my way downstairs with trepidation, knowing I will find two Malfoys down there. However, when I enter the living room, Monty isn't lying Stupefied on the sofa. I do hear noises from the kitchen, though and take a deep breath before entering.

 

In the kitchen, Malfoy sits alone at the table, eating breakfast. I can't help but look around the room, expecting Monty to be standing at the hob frying some bacon.

 

“Where's Monty?” I start with the obvious question.

 

“He's gone,” says Malfoy. He smiles at me before shovelling a fork full of eggs in his mouth.

 

“Gone where? And how? He was—” I point back through to the living room, indicating the Stupefied state I had left Monty in.

 

“I may have borrowed your wand again.” As Malfoy speaks my hand moves to my wand. “I put it _back_ ,” Malfoy says, as though he's offended I would have thought otherwise.

 

“You revived him? Why?”

 

“So he could leave—so we wouldn't have to. He left all the food and wine. We're sorted for another day or two. There's more bacon.” His voice is warm and I get the impression he is trying to be extra nice to me.

 

“He just left? Did he say anything?” I can't help it, Malfoy's breakfast smells good, and I make my way to the bacon.

 

“Not really. Huffed and puffed, you know how dramatic he is—” Malfoy pauses for a second at my snort of laughter. “He seemed sheepish enough about the whole thing. I don't think you have to worry about him trying to woo you once we get home.”

 

I shudder at the thought. I ponder the idea that we could just stay—that Malfoy wants us to just stay. I don't know if it's wise, after what happened last night. Not only with Monty, but with Malfoy, even if Malfoy doesn't remember it all. I am about to open my mouth and say this, when a bright white hare comes bounding into the cottage through the wall. It sits in the middle of the kitchen and addresses me with Luna's voice.

 

“Your agent called... I think this morning. I was so very high last night, everything's a bit... He sounded pleased, something about a part? Anyway, with no phones where you are, I thought I should let you know. Hope you're both having fun!”

 

And then the hare dissolved into thin air.

 

“Well done,” said Malfoy, voice suddenly stiff, not taking his eyes from his plate.

 

“She didn't say I had the part, they probably just want to see me again. But—” I grasp at the excuse. “—this means we can't stay. I'm already mostly packed. Let's leave in half an hour.”

 

“I haven't found my wand yet—I can't leave without my wand!”

 

My stomach drops. I really did hide Malfoy's wand somewhere obscure, and after the madness of the last 24 hours, I now have no idea where that obscure place is. It turns out I don't need you.

 

“Will you _Accio_ it for me?” He doesn't need to add the touch of hope to his voice, I'm relieved by the suggestion.

 

“ _Accio Malfoy's wand_.”

 

We hear a rattling, a crash and finally, a whooshing. Then Malfoy's wand is in my hand. I hold it out to him and when he grasps the handle I don't let go of the shaft. I wait until he looks up and me and stare into his eyes.

 

“No more AK's, okay?”

 

Malfoy nods. “Okay.”

 

Finally, I relinquish the wand to Malfoy, thankful he won't have to resort to stealing mine any more (for a while, at least).

 

“Get ready, then,” I say.

 

“What about lunch?” Malfoy looks longingly at the leftovers from yesterday.

 

“Pack that up, as well.”

 

\- - -

 

Having barely slept last night, driving 300 miles, and on a miserably rainy day with bad visibility, proves difficult. I swerve more than it is strictly safe to do and swear more than Malfoy on a bad day. It doesn't help that Malfoy is sitting beside me in the passenger seat, looking sullen, drinking from a bottle of wine and eating a full dinner off a plate in his lap.

 

It's as my eyes start to itch with the strain of concentrating that I decide to call a time out and pull into the next services. I crawl into the back seat leaving Malfoy with instructions to wake me up in an hour.

 

When I wake up the first thing I notice is that it's louder than I think it should be. I open my eyes and look up at the car roof. Still in the back seat I lift myself up on one elbow and look out of the window. Where once there had been a Costa Coffee and a KFC there is now movement. Trees and fields and other cars go whizzing by as we race past them.

 

I'm just considering the possibility that I am dreaming when the car jerks violently one way, and then quickly back in the other. The bang on the head I receive from the arm rest tells me I am in fact not dreaming.

 

Squinting over the back of the front seat, I see Malfoy at the wheel. He has a cigarette dangling from his lips and a look of pure determination on his face.

 

“What're you doing?” I say.

 

“Making time,” is Malfoy's reply.

 

“You can't drive.”

 

“Obviously I can.”

 

“You need to pull over; you don't have a licence,” I point out reasonably.

 

“No, I'm making time.” As he speaks Malfoy makes another sharp move to the side to overtake the car in front and I hear bottles clink somewhere in one of the foot wells.

 

“And you've been drinking!”

 

As though hearing my words, a police car suddenly appears behind us. Malfoy seems to pay it no mind, simply swerving back into the outside lane, never removing his foot from the accelerator. I suddenly hope Malfoy knows that the brake pedal exists.

 

Inevitably, the police sirens come on, and I can't help but moan, “Oh no.” This is _bad_.

 

Still, Malfoy seems nonplussed. “Leave them to me,” he says, before pulling over suddenly, across three lanes, onto the hard shoulder.

 

The police car pulls up in front us and a policeman gets out. He walks back to us and taps lightly on the window, which Malfoy winds down. From my vantage point in the back seat I see the policeman eye the bottles in the passenger seat foot well.

 

“A little early to be drinking isn't it?”

 

“Oh no, they're not mine. They're his.” Malfoy throws a thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

 

When the policeman turns to look at me, for want of anything better to do, I give him a little wave.

 

“You're drunk.” The policeman addresses Malfoy. “I can smell it.”

 

“No, still him,” says Malfoy, with another motion of his thumb. “He's _really_ smelly.” He says it in a stage whisper, conspiratorially.

 

“Get out of the car, please, Sir.”

 

Malfoy complies, but I hear him complain as he extracts himself from his seat. “I assure you, officer, I've only had a few ales.”

 

“Then kindly prove it with a big blow into this hole.” The policeman displays a small device with a tiny pipe at the top and holds it out towards Malfoy's face.

 

“I will not.” Malfoy turns his face away with a look of disgust.

 

“You're refusing to complete a breathalyser test?”

 

“If that's what that thing is—” Malfoy points at the device in the policeman's hand. “—then yes, I refuse.”

 

“I'm placing you under arrest.”

 

Of all the things Malfoy could do when he hears those words, he chooses to laugh.

 

\- - -

 

As Malfoy sits in the back of a Muggle police car, I follow behind all the way to the police station. I find a place to park as quickly as I can and head inside in time to see them marching Malfoy though through the corridors.

 

Never one to go quietly, Malfoy is making his voice heard. “I have a lung condition! Let me take a _urine_ test!”

 

I can't prevent my palm from meeting my face when I realise what Malfoy has planned.

 

Unable to prevent it, I sit on a bench outside the room two officers take Malfoy into, and wait.

 

The corridor is quiet, and considering the ridiculous situation Malfoy has got himself into, I decide to risk it, and slip my wand out. I cast a gentle amplification spell, which is just enough for me to hear what is going on inside the room.

 

“—'s he saying?” Comes one of the policemen's voices.

 

Followed quickly by the other's. “I don't know. Nonsense, sound's like. He's drunk.”

“Is he—is he talking to his—to it?”

 

They fall silent, apparently to listen. And in their silence, I think I can hear Malfoy, too.

 

“ _Mejo_... _Mejo Bestia. Mejo... Sopio? Mejo_ _something_ , you stupid bloody appendage!”

 

“He _is_ talking to it, bloody hell.”

 

“Fuck this,” says Malfoy, louder, angrier, and I am on my feet.

 

“What the hell is tha—” The policeman doesn't get to finish.

 

“ _Stupefy.”_

 

I'm cancelling my amplification spell and throwing up a silencing charm as I head through the door. Inside I'm greeted by two policemen crumpled on the floor and Malfoy standing across the room, all three of his wands out. He lowers his magic wand, but I can't help it when my eyes linger on the Blibbering Humdinger penis, tied right alongside Malfoy's own.

 

“Like what you see?” Malfoy raises a suggestive eyebrow, which I only see after his wiggles his hips to grab my attention.

 

It's then my fears are confirmed. Malfoy realised his lie about me being gay wasn't a lie, and he hadn't forgotten that fact in a drunken haze. Instead of replying, I glare at him.

 

He takes the hint and does up his trousers.

 

“You're good at Obliviation, get in here and close the door.”

 

“What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?” Despite my words, I do exactly as Malfoy says.

 

“I couldn't remember the spell to get Luna's penis to work. I didn't _actually_ want to get arrested, so I improvised.”

 

“Improvised? You did magic in front of Muggles. _On_ Muggles!”

 

“Because that's not something you've done already on this holiday.” Malfoy's arms fall to his sides and he looks at me, clearly unimpressed.

 

“Only because I had no other option,” I argue.

 

“And what other option did I have here?”

 

“Not to drink and drive in the first place?”

 

“Pffft. Are you going to help or not?” He points helpfully at the still-Stupefied men on the floor.

 

I roll my eyes, but of course I'm going to help.

 

Once we Obliviate them just enough, we position them near the door. After a quick look out to make sure the corridor is still clear, we open the door and, finally, revive them.

 

“Well, thank you very much, officers,” I say, reaching out to shake one of their hands as Malfoy does the same with the other. “We're sorry you had to do all this. With a personality as wild as his, this isn't the first time he's been accused of being drunk!”

 

“He's not... he's not drunk?” asks one of them.

 

“Oh no,” says Malfoy. “My urine was clean as a whistle. Wasn't it, sir?” Malfoy addresses the other policeman, who nods.

 

“Yeah, yeah, it was.”

 

“Now that's all sorted out, we'll be on our way.” I put a leading arm behind Malfoy and we start to walk away.

 

“Sorry about the unnecessary paperwork!” Malfoy calls back to them before we reach the end of the corridor and disappear as fast as we can.

 

\- - -

 

I feel both relieved and depressed when we get back to the house. As unwontedly eventful as our time away had been, all I had had to worry about was Malfoy. Not bills or food or heating, not the every day things. It was just me and Malfoy, with all of that left behind, for a little while.

 

When the front door slams shut behind us I am forced back to my reality.

 

“Home sweet home,” says Malfoy before wandering off into the house.

 

I head straight upstairs to drop off my bags and lay down to relax after, well, after pretty much the entire last week. Instead, I find Luna in my bed.

 

“Luna, what are you doing?”

 

“Oh, hi, you're back. I was taking a nap. I told you in my message how high I was last night, right?”

 

“You might've mentioned it, but don't you have your own bed to nap in?”

 

“I'm house sitting,” she says, as if it's obvious and I should be grateful. She gets out of my bed, at least.

 

“We didn't ask you to house sit,” I point out politely.

 

“I know, which was a mistake on your part, but I came anyway.”

 

“Right, of course.” I give up on reasoning with Luna and decide to collapse downstairs for a while. I'll need to go out and use the phone box to call my agent soon anyway.

 

Luna follows me down, and Malfoy is already there, stretched out on the sofa. When Luna takes the armchair, I toss Malfoy's feet off the end of the sofa and sit down in their place. Instead of sitting up like I assumed he would do, Malfoy lifts his feet and put them back in the same place, which is now my lap.

 

“Did you have a nice time?” Luna asks.

 

“Wonderful,” answers Malfoy. “Fresh air, local folk, a randy bull—” A pause. “—A randy uncle.”

 

“That sounds nice.” Luna even sounds sincere.

 

I don't even attempt to join in the conversation, I am far too preoccupied by Malfoy's feet in my lap.

 

“Are you glad to be home, though?” continues Luna.

 

“Well, we had to come back at some point.” As he speaks I notice Malfoy's toes curl and his feet tense. I look up at his face, but it's blank, closed.

 

“I had a lot of fun house sitting.”

 

“You were house sitting?” Malfoy's blank face becomes a confused frown. “We didn't—”

 

“What fun did you have, Luna?” I grip Malfoy's feet tightly as a warning to shut up—I don't want to get stuck on that merry-go-round again.

 

“The most exciting thing was my discovering a new breed of long-tailed Cirorky under your kitchen cupboards. I've been studying them for the last three days. So far I've learnt that they seem to love cheese.”

 

Malfoy opens his mouth, no doubt to point out that Luna's long-tailed Cirorkies are actually our mice, but I grip his feet again and his mouth closes.

 

“That sounds delightful,” is what Malfoy says instead.

 

“Either of you fancy sharing a joint?” Luna asks as she pulls out papers and a pouch from her pocket.

 

“Oh, you've twisted my arm.” This gets Malfoy to sit up and my lap grows cold as it mourns the loss of Malfoy's feet.

 

“Not for me. It's about time I made a phone call to my agent.” I stand, check my pockets for change and head for the door.

 

As I make my way down the hallway I hear Luna's voice from the living room.

 

“This'll blow your mind. I call it the Hackenthorpe Horn.”

 

“Why?” Malfoy sounds excited and I smile as I open the front door.

 

“Because I invented it in Hackenthorpe and it looks like a Unicorn horn.”

 

\- - -

 

I don't remember making it back inside the house, but I do, because I'm sitting back on the sofa and Malfoy is looking at me.

 

“Did you get the part?” he asks, and I almost laugh.

 

“No, not that part. They've offered me the lead.”

 

“Congratulations.” Malfoy's voice is hard and he looks away as he takes a long drag on—I have to do a double take—a gigantic spliff, that is indeed shaped like a Unicorn horn.

 

“Can I have some of that?” I ask, suddenly desperate to get high.

 

“Thought you didn't want any,” says Malfoy.

 

“I changed my mind.” I make an impatient motion with my hand and Malfoy hands over the joint. I feel better as soon as it's between my fingers.

 

“Be careful,” Luna warns me, “it's strong stuff.”

 

“I'll be fine.”

 

Luna shrugs and I bring the joint to my mouth. I take a deep drag and hold my breath until my lungs start to burn. I exhale and immediately take another. Luna's face goes from passive, to amazed to... kind of blurry and a little bright. I close my eyes and lean back into the sofa.

 

I got the lead. I'm going to Manchester. For months, longer if the run gets extended, or I get picked up for another role. It's too much. I lift the joint for a third time and just after I finish inhaling, I feel it lifted from my fingers.

 

“That's enough, I think.” It's Malfoy's voice. I open my eyes, turn to look at him and smile happily. “More than enough,” confirms Malfoy.

 

I turn my head to the ceiling and spot an elaborate, gaudy chandelier where our tiny, stained lampshade used to be. It even has candles.

 

“Is this weed hallucinogenic, or do we have a crazy chandelier now?”

 

“Oh, I transfigured that when your electricity was cut off,” says Luna, puffing on the joint that Malfoy passed to her.

 

“What?”—“What?” Malfoy and I both cry at the same time.

 

“Our electric was cut off?” I ask.

 

While Malfoy's follow up question is, “We had electricity?”

 

Significantly distracted, I turn to Malfoy. “You didn't know we had electricity?” My voice is a pitch too high for my liking, but I blame it on the drugs.

 

Malfoy shrugs. “Never used it.”

 

My mouth is agape, sure I have something to say, some example of when Malfoy has used the electric, but I don't. He hasn't. I'm the one who reheats three day old takeaway in the microwave that Malfoy thought was a fancy cupboard. I'm the one that uses the electric blanket in the dead of winter, while Malfoy throws on more jumpers. I'm the one that dances around to CDs while Malfoy winds up his old gramophone.

 

“You didn't know we had electricity,” I repeat the words as statement.

 

Malfoy raises his eyebrows, pats me on one knee and takes back the joint from Luna.

 

“Would you mind if I spent a few more days studying your long-tailed Cirorkies?” asks Luna.

 

“Are you a zoologist now? What happened to the journalism career?”

 

“I can write about them for _The Quibbler_ —it'll be another exclusive!”

 

As Malfoy and Luna discuss her career and our mice, I zone them out. Instead I think about Malfoy. At least he won't have to worry about paying the electric bill when I'm gone.

 

When I'm gone. I'm going. I'm going to Manchester. I'm leaving London. I'm leaving this house. I'm leaving Malfoy. I turn my head slightly to look at Malfoy from the edge of my eye. He is still talking idly with Luna, no doubt they both think I'm too stoned to anything but sit here and think. I think I might agree.

 

I wonder if Malfoy will be okay without me here to look out for him. I hope Luna will still visit and keep him company, then I see them exchange the joint once more and change my mind. Then again, I'm the one stoned off his face, so I guess I can't talk. Maybe Malfoy will be better off without me. I've been trying to look out for him for years, to fend off his invisible demons as well as my own. But maybe instead of helping I've only been propping him up. What if, without me here, he'll have to pick himself up? Maybe he'll be stronger for it.

 

In all honesty, though, I don't want to leave. I want to stay here, with Malfoy. I want to be someone Malfoy needs. But I'm not, other than his supplier of food and booze. I'm not needed in any meaningful sense of the word. What I am is ashamed and embarrassed. I can't take care of us any more. I have no money to feed us, to house us. I have no solace to offer, no opportunity to give comfort. As much as I would like to, it's not wanted. And the humiliation of Malfoy knowing of my feelings for him... I hate the fact, but I can't stay, not in the face of that.

 

So I've been given an out. An opportunity. To start fresh, with a job and a new city. To walk into the new and unknown is the brave and Gryffindorish thing to do. Then again, I haven't felt like much of a Gryffindor these days.

 

Maybe it's time I reclaimed the title.

 

\- - -

 

The next morning I call my agent and make all the arrangements. I pack a bag, which is easy enough when I haven't yet unpacked my last one. I use a haphazard Packing Charm to throw the rest of my belongings into boxes, ready to be shrunk and sent on once I'm settled.

 

When I walk into the living room with my bag at my side, Malfoy has to look twice. He has a corkscrew in one hand and an open bottle of wine in the other.

 

“You're not leaving already?” He says it like he wants to laugh, like I'm making a joke. It only makes it more painful.

 

“They have a room for me, until I get paid, find a place of my own. I don't see the point in drawing this out.”

 

“Can't you stay for a glass? I've just opened the last of Monty's wine.” The hope in his voice is almost too much.

 

“I can't. I'm sorry, Malfoy. I have a train to catch.”

 

“I see. Well, I'll walk you through the park.”

 

“It's pissing it down.” I don't want him to come. Every second I stay in his company makes leaving it harder.

 

“I've got my wand, and I could use the fresh air.”

 

I can't say no if Malfoy is willing to walk in the rain for fresh air he claims to despise, in order to say goodbye.

 

\- - -

 

We walk at a mild pace through the park, both shielded by Impervius Charms. I drink from the bottle of wine when Malfoy hands it to me, but only take small sips. It tastes bitter—everything about this is bitter. I'm abandoning the man I love for all the right and noble reasons. To give him a chance to fight for himself, to make the right choices, to be strong. But it's hard.

 

I pull up sharp and stop.

 

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, hoping the pain doesn't come through in my voice. I think I fail.

 

“I want to see you off.”

 

“I—I don't want you to, Malfoy. I'm sorry, it's—” With nothing left to lose, all I can be is honest. “—it's too hard.”

 

Malfoy's face falls, and I barely have time to consider how this is really affecting him before he's telling me.

 

“It's hard for me too.” Malfoy takes a deep breath and seems to steady himself before looking me in the eye. “I love you, you know. I'm sorry I've made your life so difficult for so, so long. I hope your life can be better, now. I'll miss you.”

 

And then Malfoy is the one walking away. I'm the one leaving, but it is suddenly Malfoy who is leaving me behind.

 

He walks back the way we came, and I see when he drops his Impervius Charm, letting the rain soak him. Instinctively, without meaning to, I take a step after him.

 

When Malfoy speaks, his voice is clear and perfectly audible over the rain as it hits the ground.

 

“I have of late, (but wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition; that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterrill promontory;—”

 

Malfoy's heartfelt delivery leaves me in such awe it takes me a moment to place the Dane's monologue. And I trail after him, so keen to hear the rest.

 

“—this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this Majesticall roof, fretted with golden fire: why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.”

 

Malfoy pauses to take a drink of wine, but carries on seamlessly as soon as he pulls the bottle from his lips.

 

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an Angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”

 

Here Malfoy stops, then his voice becomes quieter, more fragile, but some how remains just as strong.

 

“And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor Woman neither.”

 

And suddenly I see. I see Malfoy, not the broken man that has been living in his space for so long. I see a man so far from the broken, delicate man I thought I had been looking at. I see a man whose acting makes mine feel mediocre. I see a man who never needed the electricity I paid for. I see a man who doesn't need me at all—I see a man who wants me.

I run after Malfoy and his unfinished monologue. I grasp the sodden shoulder of his long tweed coat and I spin him around. I have no more time left to waste.

 

“Come with me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Come to Manchester with me. There are plenty of theatres there—plenty of jobs.”

 

“Understudies?” Malfoy raises an eyebrow, his ego once again trying to get in the way of his happiness.

 

“Among others,” I say, confident he can work his way up, if he has to.

 

Malfoy lowers his eyebrow and I see the possibility alight in his eyes. “I don't know.”

 

“What's keeping you here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

 

Malfoy looks at me with such focus, such desire, that I stop breathing until he answers. When he does, it is with a slow, secret smile, a dropped bottle of wine, and a kiss.

[CLICK HERE TO RETURN TO LIVEJOURNAL TO COMMENT](http://hd-smoochfest.livejournal.com/149721.html) (OR COMMENT BELOW!)


End file.
